Hiding in Plain Sight
by Calatia
Summary: When he finds out that Sherlock is alive, John is through with being protected and underestimated by the Holmes brothers. With Sherlock in trouble and Mycroft running out of options, can the army doctor save the day? Post-Reichenbach. Pre-return. No slash. Rated T for Violence
1. Chapter 1

This story is set about 4 months after The Reichenbach Fall. It is canon, but I guess as soon as season 3 comes out it will be AU... It's my first story, so constructive criticism and reviews are very welcome.

Many thanks go to my Beta, **MrsNoggin**, for her never ending encouragement and lightning fast corrections. All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings:** Violence and Torture in later Chapters.

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

London, 30 September 2012

It was a wet and gloomy day in London; the constant drizzle had turned into rain and made it clear that the summer was undeniably over. The man, sat in his posh office behind thick glass, could not care less about mundane things like the weather. Though the rain definitely complemented his bleak mood.

Mycroft read through the message for what felt like the thousandth time. He knew the content by heart, but it was the last communication he had received from his younger brother, and that had been almost three weeks ago.

-**Found M. Going in. Expect next contact in 10 days. SH**

Today was the twentieth day since the message and still no word from Sherlock. His phone was either turned off or out of battery and the trackers that Mycroft had installed in most of his clothes had long since been found and destroyed by the younger man. He sighed; this whole mission his brother had set out for himself was proving to be much more difficult than expected. Of course it did not help that Sherlock himself ran interference left, right and centre whenever the older Holmes was involved. He had set his mind on completing his task alone, and that included refusing all help. Still, that did not stop his older brother from trying to keep in touch. Annoyed by the constant surveillance, Sherlock had finally agreed to intermittent contact via an untraceable mobile phone. And that had worked out well for both sides. Mycroft was somewhat in the loop what his sibling was up to and Sherlock could call in for help if he found himself stuck (which, though he would never admit it to himself, DID happen). But then, three weeks ago, this feeble line of contact was severed. And Mycroft was worried. Very worried.

'Sentiment', he thought to himself, 'I am getting old and pathetic. And this is _entirely _your fault, Sherlock.'

He started to pace through the room. There had to be way to find Sherlock, but all official and semi-official channels were closed to him. He could not trust his own people with the life of his brother and his friends. After all, they were paid to spy on people, and one could never be 100% sure that no one was working on someone else's payroll as well. Mycroft was so immersed in his thoughts that he completely missed the polite knock on the door. Only as Anthea walked up next to him did he come back to reality.

"Sir, are you OK?"

"Hmm? Yes, of course. Just thinking."

Anthea looked at her boss suspiciously, but choose not to comment at his obvious distraction. She had noticed him growing even more distant than usual in the past months, but had put it up to the death of his younger brother. Anyway, it was none of her business, and she would regret any personal question immediately.

"There is a Dr. Watson waiting outside. Shall I send him in or tell him that you are busy?"

"John Watson is here? Interesting. Please, send him in. I wanted to speak to him anyway."

With that said he turned back towards the window and looked at the busy London streets. He heard Anthea speak to his visitor outside and then the light footsteps on his expensive carpet as John entered the room and closed the door behind him.

"So many people, worrying about their pathetic little lives and yet have no idea of the dangers they are in every day. Do they know what people like us do to keep them safe? Do they care? Or would they be appalled by the dark side of our work?" He turned around to face John. "Tell me, Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"They should be happy that they don't know. Makes life a lot easier. Less nightmares."

Mycroft nodded. That was the answer he had expected of the good doctor. Never asking for recognition and always willing to sacrifice himself for the good of Queen and Country. Maybe – no, he promised to Sherlock that he would keep John safe, he would not break the trust his brother bestowed upon him. He looked at the younger man and was surprised at what he saw. The doctor had lost some weight, his clothes clung loosely to his small frame, but his face was what had changed most. The lines around his eyes and forehead were a lot deeper and the hair was greying at his temples. What was most startling was the hostile look. Mycroft had seen a lot in his life, and he was not easily intimidated, but the expression on John's face gave him a slight chill. Pure, unadulterated hate and anger.

"It took me a while, you know, to figure it all out. You really had me in the beginning, but once the initial shock wore off things just didn't match up. So I did some research on my own, found more traces and cover-ups. How long have the two of you been planning this? Since the kidnapping case? Or does it go back longer? The assassins moving to Baker Street? Moriarty's capture? Maybe you gave him all that information on purpose?"

"John…"

"Tell me Mycroft, in all that elaborate planning of yours, did it ever occur to either of you to just TELL ME? 'Hey, John listen, I need to fake my death, please don't be upset.' But I guess normal people like me don't merit your consideration. No, instead Sherlock made me watch him jump off a freaking roof and you- you gave the performance of your life during the funeral. You know, I really felt sorry for you Mycroft. And all this time you KNEW. Knew he was alive and you never mentioned it?"

"John, I _am_ sorry."

"Sorry? You're –" He had to reign himself in. "I was lost after he jumped. Couldn't even stay at Baker Street. You watched me fall apart and you. Never. Said. A. Word!"

"I couldn't. Believe me, if there had been lesser stakes, but Sherlock was very insistent that you were not to be told."

John's world was spinning out of control. Had Mycroft really just confirmed that Sherlock was alive? Sure, he had found some clues, but there was nothing conclusive, he had come here on a hunch that if anyone knew the truth, it would be Sherlock's meddling, manipulative big brother. He had not expected him to give up actual answers and he hadn't even allowed himself to believe that his friend was alive. ALIVE!

"John, calm down. My brother had his reasons. Both of your lives depended on you believing in his death."

"Sherlock, of course he wou- wait, what? How was my life depending on his death?" He stared at Mycroft, slowly getting control over his frenzied thoughts again.

"If you would calm down for a minute, there is something I want you to listen to. It is a recording of Sherlock's last minutes on that rooftop, his final confrontation with Moriarty. It will explain things much better than I ever could."

John looked up into the taller man's eyes. They were sincere. He was still very, very angry with Mycroft, but he was willing to give the man a chance to explain himself. After all, he had endured all of his screaming and even managed to look genuinely guilty.

"Ok, show me that recording, but Mycroft, I need the truth here; I am done with being manipulated and protected by the Holmes brothers. I was a soldier; I _can _take care of myself."

Nodding, Mycroft reached into his drawer and took out Sherlock's old phone. John stared at the innocent little device. This piece of technology was so irrevocably connected to his best friend, that it was as if part of him was actually in the room. Unwelcome memories of tears and blood threatened to overwhelm him, so he swallowed hard and concentrated his mind on the fact that Sherlock was alive.

"Just listen, John. Please." And with that he opened the file.

Hearing Moriarty's voice ringing through the room made John uneasy. Even though he knew the criminal mastermind was really dead, the memory of that voice was still fresh. And then he heard Sherlock's voice, strong and alive. It took all his willpower to keep his composure neutral.

The beginning of the conversation was not very surprising; he'd expected the usual mind games between the brilliant detective and the criminal mastermind. When it came to the part with the code he was actually surprised that Sherlock seemed genuinely puzzled. He had never heard his friend sounding so insecure. And Moriarty took the upper hand with such ease it scared John from just listening to it.

Hearing Sherlock finally figuring it out almost crushed him. The usual glee in his voice when the pieces fell into place was replaced by a blank and hopeless voice. He sounded defeated. Crushed, disgraced and utterly alone. John's heart went out for his friend, he should have been there with him, stood by his side.

The sound of a struggle came up next, pulling him from his dark thoughts. Of course, he smiled; Sherlock would never go down without a fight. Calling Moriarty insane was a nice touch. But the next sentence sent shivers through his entire body.

"_Okay, let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don't."_

_"John," Sherlock breathed._

Oh God, Mycroft was right. This did make sense. Suddenly everything made sense…

"_Not just John. Everyone."_

"_...Mrs. Hudson."_

"_Everyone."_

"_...Lestrade."_

"_Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now. … Unless my people see you jump."_

His heart stopped for a second as he realized what was at stake here. The impossible choice the detective had faced on that roof. He missed the next few seconds of the conversation, but was startled out of his thoughts by Sherlock's laughter. _Huh?_

John was immensely proud of his friend that he would not give up, never gave up, and he found the one flaw in Moriarty's scheme, the one weak point that could collapse the whole story. He had never heard Sherlock's voice go that dark and threatening before and even if his words were not directed at him he could hear the power they carried.

The shot came as a complete shock and he imagined the same was true for Sherlock, judging from the ragged breathing and sound of agitated footsteps. So close, he had come so close to gain control of the situation, to defeat Moriarty, but it was all useless now. John's mind was racing as he heard the recording break off.

He realized that this must be the moment when Sherlock had called him. Until now, he had thought it was to sell the lie, but now he wasn't so sure anymore. His friend's frantic behaviour, his obvious sorrow and pain, now it all made sense. Maybe Sherlock needed to hear his voice in order to make what had to be one of the toughest decisions in his life. To give his life for the lives of John, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade. Even though the detective had planned this, had provisions that allowed him to survive, John now was certain that the actual jump had only been the last resort. A look at Mycroft confirmed this.

"He never really meant to jump. He thought he could outsmart the master criminal. Beat him. But in the end Moriarty was the winner. He left Sherlock no other option. I am sorry, but that is why we could not tell you. Those snipers stayed on even after the funeral, in fact, they are still around. I saw you suffer, but I could not risk telling you. Your grief was your protection, the one thing that would stop the snipers from executing their order. Sherlock is working hard on destroying the last remaining cells of Moriarty's network, but until that is done you, Mrs Hudson and DI Lestrade live in constant danger."

John took a few minutes to let the information sink in. It made a lot more sense now that he saw it all through the eyes of the Holmes brothers and their twisted, although well-meaning, minds. Of course Sherlock would try to protect those he considered his friends. The stupid, moronic and so _not_ sociopathic git did what he had done all his life: Confront the problem alone. John knew very well that his friend did care; the outward look of a machine that he liked to project was just that, a facade. His (over-) reaction to Mrs. Hudson's assault proved that without a doubt. The only thing he would never understand was how both Holmes brothers could completely forget about the 'army' in army doctor. He was a soldier for fucks sake, not just a doctor. Sherlock had no problems using him as his medical examiner, so why was he always so reluctant to use him as his soldier?

He sighed, letting go of the rest of anger inside him and decided it was about time to reveal his real expertise to Mycroft. He could help Sherlock in his task, now he just had to convince his older brother. And seriously, how the man that was effectively The Government had managed to miss this information in his background checks was beyond John.


	2. Chapter 2

Wow, thank you soooo much for all the reviews, favorites and follows! You guys made my day!

As before, beta'd by **MrsNoggin.** All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings: **war themes, violence

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

London, 30 September 2012

"I can help, Mycroft. And before you protest, pull my records from the army, would you? I am sure that poses no problem to you. And also, get the records of Captain Andrew Doyle while you are at it."

"What are you trying to prove John? I've already read your file, and while it is quite impressive I fail to see the relevance here. And who is Andrew Doyle?"

"The files, Mycroft."

John almost smiled to himself when he saw Mycroft's puzzled face. He really loved playing with the older Holmes, enjoying the feeling of knowing things that the powerful man in front of him had clearly missed. It was a rare occurrence and he was not above being gleeful sometimes.

Still slightly confused by the sudden change in the doctor's behaviour, Mycroft logged himself into the Ministry of Defence Database. Pulling the file of Captain John H. Watson was simple. Captain Doyle, however, proved a bit more difficult. His frown deepened after he was prompted for the third time for yet another security clearance code. He did have full access, but files this well protected usually belonged to top secret units. Finally the file opened to him and as expected, the record belonged to a member of the SRR or Special Reconnaissance Regiment, a unit of the British Army Special Forces.

John was watching Mycroft working on his computer, and while he could not see the screen, he recognized the exact moment when the Doyle file opened. Mycroft's eyebrows seemed to try and reach his ever receding hairline. John suppressed a smile.

"SRR? That is elite, even for Special Forces. How do you know this man? Or rather, how _did_ you know him, as he was KIA in Afghanistan almost 3 years ago." Mycroft really was surprised. SRR soldiers were ghosts. Using multiple cover identities to gather Intel all around the world in the hottest of hot zones. He sometimes used them when he did not dare to send his own agents into war zones. SRR teams comprised of highly trained soldiers, each lethal in their own way and operating completely undercover, sometimes for months without contact. They were feared and respected amongst the rest of the military as well as the intelligence services.

"As far as I can tell, you never have served at the same base. Actually, you seemed to have missed each other narrowly quite a few times."

"Not a few times, Mycroft. _Always_. Check the dates and draw your conclusions."

He went over the file again, but there was little doubt. Whenever John would return to base in the UK, Captain Doyle was sent off on covert missions. The moment Doyle reported back, John would be transferred to his next assignment. The dates were way to close to be coincidence. Even their rise through the ranks was running in sync. But – suddenly it clicked and Mycroft took a sharp intake of breath.

No. It couldn't be, could it?

* * *

Afghanistan, undisclosed location, July 2010:

_"Doyle, get your ass over here, Roberts got hit!" _

_The frantic screams of his Team Leader, Lt Col Sebastian Moran sprung Andrew into action. Cursing, he left his position, leaving his team mate Adams in charge of the look out. The team was excellently trained, and even though they all had their specialties, each could take over the duties of any other member. He quickly crawled over to his other two team mates, immediately switching into Doctor mode. One glance told him that the injury was superficial and not life threatening. Roberts had been shot in his upper right arm, but the bullet only grazed the skin and while it was bleeding badly, the wound would not even require stitches. While patching it up, Andrew thought about their current situation. _

_He still wondered how a simple recon mission had gone FUBAR so quickly. They had been hiking through remote mountains for days to get close enough to the Taliban base in the valley below them. Rumour was that several high ranking Taliban members would have a meeting here sometime this week. Their mission was to confirm the Intel, see who showed up and possibly take out high priority targets. Besides Andrew, the four man team consisted of Team Leader Lt Col. Moran, a wizard with the latest surveillance tech and lethal with a sniper rifle; Lt. Adams, tactical officer and expert for explosives; and Sgt . Roberts, communications and field medic. Andrew was the team's weapons expert and doctor. Usually SRR Teams did not have doctors attached to them, their missions were too dangerous for that, but Andrew had proven to be an excellent marksmen and reliable under fire, so he was attached to his unit primarily as sniper/spotter and only secondly as a doctor. The teams in the SRR were assembled on a mission to mission base and did not stay together after the mission was complete, so he knew very little about his fellow team members, not even their real names. The only exception was Moran. Andrew had been on several missions with the Colonel and they were on friendly terms. The cover identities were a protection, in case someone got captured, so they could never reveal the real identities of their team members because they did not know them._

_The team had arrived three days ago and stayed hidden in a small cave just outside the valley. Lt Col. Moran had installed his equipment and within hours they had full view of all activities in the Taliban base through hidden cameras. Now all they had to do was wait for the Taliban leaders to arrive. Unfortunately, one of the enemy patrols had literally stumbled over one of the hidden cameras and immediately alerted the rest of the guards. Shortly after that all hell had broken loose as the Taliban soldiers zeroed in on their hiding spot. So far they had been able to defend their position, taking out quite a few enemies, but they were still severely outnumbered. Roberts had radioed in for air support and evac, but that was still a good two hours away. Andrew glanced over at Moran and they both came to the same conclusion. They had to make a run for it, this position was not defendable enough and they needed better cover._

_"We can try to cut through the cave. I have seen a small exit leading to the other side of this mountain range. It is half caved in, but we should be able to widen it enough for us to escape." _

_Moran just nodded at Andrew's plan. He had come to trust the smaller man's judgment._

_"Let's go! Roberts, can you walk?" The Lieutenant gave a quick nod. "All right, Adams, pull back, I will lay some cover fire; they don't need to know we are getting out of here. You have ten minutes to open up the other exit, I will follow, understood?"Another rally of shots rang through the valley and Adams fired back, killing at least two of the approaching enemy soldiers._

_"Copy that Colonel!" With that he scrambled up and disappeared inside the cave._

_Andrew was still bent over Roberts, having just finished bandaging his arm when suddenly his left shoulder exploded in pain. _

_"Doyle! SHIT!" Moran had his gun ready and shot the soldier that had approached their position from the side. Crouching down next to his two injured teammates he started to check Andrew's wound._

_"Fuck, Roberts, I need you here, the bullet got through the armhole into the shoulder, looks messy!" Moran turned to face the barely conscious Andrew. "Doyle! I need you stay with me, ok? We are getting out of here, but you have to stay conscious, is that clear?"_

_Instead of answering Andrew just gritted his teeth against the agony in his shoulder. He felt the darkness trying to pull him in but he fought with all his strength to stay away from it. He knew he was losing blood at an alarming rate, they were still deep in enemy territory, under fire and help was at least two hours away. Not good. So he turned to the one entity that might be able to help and prayed: 'Please God, let me live.'_

_What happened next was blurred in Andrew's mind. He had a slight recollection of Roberts trying to stop the bleeding, screaming at him to stay conscious. He remembered the explosion when Adams opened up their exit, recalled bits and pieces of the hike down the mountain slope, supported by Moran and Adams and accompanied by pain, so much pain. Then, after what seemed like ages, the roaring of the helicopter. An unknown voice screaming at him that he was safe now. That's when he finally gave in to the darkness and let himself sink into a world without noise and pain. _

* * *

London, 30 September 2012

"You _are_ Andrew Doyle?"

Mycroft's exclamation brought John back to reality.

"Yes, I am. Or rather, he is me. Captain Doyle was my cover identity whenever I was attached to the SRR."

"But, how? You are a doctor, and a good one from your records, but, excuse my saying, hardly Special Forces material." Even though he knew it was true, Mycroft still managed to sound disapproving.

"Gee, thanks. While I am a doctor, I'm also a soldier. I did get full military training and during that it was discovered that I am a quite good marksmen and flagged as a potential recruit for SAS. I did not join them at that time as I wanted to help people, not kill them. During my service I reconsidered this decision and when the SRR was established 2005 they came knocking on my door again. This time I agreed, and that's how Andrew Doyle came into play. I was well known among the RAMC, so a sudden disappearance would have been noticed. With my cover identity I could switch between both divisions easily and nobody noticed that I pretty much spent five years in Afghanistan without any leave. Some SRR assignments took me out to some other parts of the world, but most of my missions were inside Afghanistan."

"You are indeed a man full of surprises, Doctor Watson." Mycroft was impressed. Not only had John made it into an elite combat team, no, he also managed to completely hide this fact from Sherlock and himself. That in itself was no small achievement, and it bugged him that he had missed it. "How did you manage to keep this from my brother?" The 'and me' was implied in the question.

"I did not keep it from either of you. You never asked. Sherlock deduced my military background, but never ventured further into the topic. I guess it wasn't important enough for him to waste his precious mind space for. He only needed to know that I can handle myself and a gun if we come across trouble and that was it. As for you, I guess I always assumed you knew."

Mycroft pondered this response. It was true, after that first case with the cab driver there had been no doubt about John's loyalties and no need for further background checks. He had been completely fooled by his calm and friendly appearance and neglected to screen him properly. This could not happen again, even though this time it ended well, what if John had possessed more sinister motives? He made a mental note to be more careful with his brother's acquaintances in future, but did not comment further on John's assumption.

"So, are you going to tell me where I can find Sherlock, or do you still think that I need your protection?"

"No, I am quite convinced that you are indeed much more capable than we gave you credit for, though your injury may have prevented you from being as good as you were before and resulted in a medical discharge. Just out of curiosity, it was Andrew Doyle that was shot, correct?"

"Yes. But John Watson woke up in the hospital. Captain Doyle died during that last mission." John paused, unsure if Mycroft needed the complete story, but ultimately deciding that the other man would find it out anyway. "I was hospitalised in Kabul for quite some time. Long enough for Command to come up with a cover story on how Captain Watson _unfortunately_ got ambushed by a sniper, only hours after his latest deployment had started. By the time I returned to England, nobody questioned this version of the story, and Captain Andrew Doyle was nothing more than a highly classified file, buried in the depths of the SRR archive."

Mycroft nodded, and in an instant knew that the solution to his problem had just presented itself. He needed someone under the radar to check on Sherlock. Someone with the skill and ruthlessness to go in alone and retrieve his brother. In other words, he needed a ghost. Like Doyle.

"You make a strong case. But I have a question for you first. Are you prepared to die? Like Sherlock did? Leaving behind your friends, your sister, your colleagues? They can't know. This can only work if you truly become Andrew again, with all the consequences and that means we have to eliminate, albeit temporarily, John Watson."

"Yes. That's why I came to you. Sherlock is family, and I need him back. And while I am stuck in this pathetic and lonely life in London, my alter ego is free to go where he pleases. Just- just promise me that you keep everyone safe. No matter what happens to me, nobody else will be dragged into the line of fire. My death won't come as a surprise; everyone knows that your brother's death has left me depressed. Even my therapist has me down as suicidal, and she usually never gets things right."

Mycroft gave John a hard look, observing the younger man's features for any signs of doubt or hesitance. He found none. Looking down he contemplated his next steps. Sherlock would want to kill him once he found out that he had broken his promise to keep his only friend safe. On the other hand, if he did not send John in, Sherlock might never make it back alive. He decided that he could live with his siblings rage much better than with his death.

"We have a deal. I will protect your loved ones and you will bring me my only brother back."

* * *

_AN: I have no clue about military procedures and especially the SRR and what they really do. (There is close to no information about this unit available online.) So if it is unrealistic, please disregard my ignorance and call it creative freedom._


	3. Chapter 3

I fixed a missing scene in Chapter 2, that both my beta and I completely missed... Thank you **Good Old James** for pointing it out! It is not essential for the rest of the story, but if you're curious, check it out!

Beta'd by the fantastic **MrsNoggin.** All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings: **mention of torture (nothing graphic)

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 12 October 2012

Sherlock was curled up in the corner of his cell. The room was bare, except for a thin mattress and a simple, hole in the floor type toilet. Windowless walls of rough stone and a thick, old fashioned metal door made any attempt at escape futile. From his cell, Sherlock could only deduce that he was in the basement of an old house, built sometime in the fifties, possibly some kind of farm, judging by the wide hallway outside his cell and the metal doors. The toilet was a recent addition; originally this must have been some kind of storage room. He suspected that he was still in Hungary, but he could not be sure of this fact as he had been unconscious for some time after his capture. If they had moved him to a different location, then the chances of Mycroft finding him were even worse. As much as he hated to admit, his older brother was the only one who would realise that he was missing.

He had lost count of how long he had been here; there was no light to indicate the day and night change and his captors did not follow any conceivable routine. All this was done purposely to disorient him, of that Sherlock was certain, and unfortunately for him, it worked. He shuddered as he thought of the man responsible for his capture. Jacob 'Jake' Moriarty; just as insane as his brother, but even more brutal and ruthless. And apparently, he took the death of his dear brother pretty personally and had made it his mission to destroy Sherlock Holmes. At first, Jake had believed the lie about the death of the great detective, but as more and more of his crime cells were raided by the police, he had started to become suspicious and when Sherlock had accidentally – and unknowingly - revealed himself to one of Moriarty's henchmen during his stay in Athens, the game had started. And Sherlock had run straight into the trap, thinking he was the hunter, not the hunted. In hindsight the trap was obvious, really, but at the time he had been too arrogant, too eager to finish off Moriarty's network quickly to be able to return home. Home that was John, 221B Baker Street and solving crimes together. Home seemed very far away now.

Sherlock had learned very quickly that Jake (he refused to call him Moriarty) did not want to kill him. They had kept him restrained to a chair for the first few hours after his capture, but did not harm him in any other way.

That had changed over the last few weeks. Was it even weeks already? It felt like it. Jake did not really hurt him that much; it was more like a continuous string of humiliation, coupled with demonstrations of power. There was no information Jake wanted from him, so torture in the more conventional sense was not used. Sherlock quickly deduced what his captor was trying to achieve, but found himself unable to do anything about it. Still, he fought every step on the way, refusing to cooperate in this game, no matter how much it cost him. He knew that the moment he gave in, started to accept his own helplessness, he would lose. He used his wit and sarcasm to mask his increasing weariness, and so far it had worked. It was only when he was sat alone in his cell that he allowed his mask to slip. Jake had gloated about how he was going to break his mind, how he would destroy the person Sherlock Holmes from within and then return his empty shell as a warning to all concerned parties that the Moriarty network was stronger and more powerful than ever. And, though he knew he fought a losing battle, Sherlock would make it as hard as possible for the mad man to archive his goal. The rational part of his mind was aware that if he did not escape soon, Jake would succeed in breaking him, even though his consciousness refused to accept this possibility. After all, there was only so much abuse the human body and mind could take, even a superior one such as his.

While curling tighter into himself Sherlock pushed the thoughts of despair as far away as he could and retreated into his Mind Palace, the only place of solace available. He opened the door that was labelled 'John' in his palace and escaped this harsh reality for a short while, unaware that the person he missed the most was currently lying hidden in the forest, not even 200 yards away.

* * *

John stared through his binoculars with determined focus. He had been observing this particular house for hours without seeing any movements. Still, this _had_ to be it.

The briefing by Mycroft had been extensive, and the more John learned about the detective's track record in dismantling the Moriarty empire, the more impressed he was. Police forces all over Europe found themselves suddenly swarmed with anonymous tip-offs and evidence, leading to several high profile arrests of previous untouchable criminals. Thanks to Mycroft's meddling, all the arrests were credited to the local police, no mention of a third party involvement at all in the press, which was a blessing. The speed and precision with which Sherlock had torn through Moriarty's network was mind blowing. After hearing it all, John was immensely proud of his friend's accomplishments, although a bit disappointed that Sherlock had left him behind for this mission.

They had started to prepare for John's own departure immediately after the briefing; time was of the essence if they wanted to find Sherlock alive. In the end, it was decided that it was better to send John for extended travels instead of killing him off. It was easier to arrange and less invasive for his friends and family. John said his good-byes and boarded a plane to Italy, apparently to go on a sightseeing trip through ancient Rome. From there he had travelled by train to Sherlock's last know location, Budapest.

Using his resurrected ID of Andrew Doyle, it was remarkably easy to trace Sherlock's steps in the Hungarian city. It took him less than two days to find this house on the outskirts of the city. And now all he needed was confirmation that his target was indeed inside. Moriarty. Not Jim, but Jake, the older brother. Heir to Moriarty's crime network and a priority target for Sherlock Holmes. And the man John held responsible for kidnapping his best friend. Mycroft had shown him the lasted surveillance pictures of Jake, but they were blurred and grainy. All official photographs on file were decades old and showed a grim youngster with long, dark hair and a ridiculous moustache. Nowadays, the man was always in the shadows; even men from his own organisation had never laid eyes on him. But they all feared him for his ruthlessness and lethal trigger finger.

During his investigation, John had found that Sherlock had traced Jake halfway through Europe before he had finally zeroed in on him here in Budapest. That was almost a month ago, and nothing had been seen or heard of either Sherlock or Jake since. John's best guess was that Sherlock had attempted to either kill or expose Jake, but had failed and was in return captured. He utterly refused to acknowledge the option that Sherlock had been killed.

Suddenly he saw some movement near the rear of the house, throwing him back into reality. A single man stepped outside and lit a cigarette. John adjusted his binoculars and tried hard to get a good view at the face, but it was almost completely dark and the guy faced away from him. Frustrated, he was about to get up to find a better vantage point when the man slowly turned in one complete circle, as if searching the surroundings for hidden threats. John was not concerned about being discovered; he was buried under leaves and clad completely in black. Together with the setting dusk, he was as good as invisible. But the turning had allowed him a quick glance on the face of the stranger and that was enough for John to make a positive ID.

He lowered his binoculars and turned on his back, taking deep breaths. Shit. He knew that man from Afghanistan. One of the best snipers in the SRR and a brilliant commander. John knew, because he owed his life to the man. What was a fine soldier like Lt Col Sebastian Moran doing here? And why would he work for a scumbag like Moriarty the elder? His presences made John's original plan of attack impossible. Moran was an expert in surveillance and that meant that the house was extremely well protected, even though it looked ordinary. He needed a new plan…

* * *

London, 12 October 2012

Mycroft was startled by the beeping of his phone. To the outside world he portrayed his usual calm and superior air, but on the inside he was tense. He would never admit this to anyone, but the unknown fate of his brother troubled him deeply. And sending John after him did not do much to calm his nerves. Over the past year he had come to respect the younger man, even developed a fondness for him, as he saw how good of an influence he was on Sherlock. Mycroft knew the former soldier could handle such situations, but he had a nagging feeling that things did not go well. As expected, the message was from John.

- **Need real name and background info Lt Col Sebastian Moran, SRR. ASAP.**

Another SRR officer? Just what exactly had John and Sherlock got themselves into? He went back to his computer to get the requested information for John. At least it gave him something useful to do. It had been a long time since he personally had run a full background check – retrieving John's files the other day did not count, he'd known what he was looking for then - and battling through all the authorisation pages tested his patience, but this was too important to delegate it to one of his assistants, as he would usually have done.

Once he had the file open, he quickly scanned the Colonel's records and missions. He found several of them overlapping with Andrew Doyle's, so John obviously knew this guy rather well and wasn't interested in his cover ID. Mycroft opened another window and started his own investigation into the real person behind the cover.

The moment his search was successful and he had a name his hands flew to his mobile. This was not good. Under his real name this man had been on Mycroft's personal most wanted list for quite some time. Adding him into an already dangerous situation could just tip John's chances of success from slim to nil. He fervently hoped that with this warning, John could adjust his tactic in time. Nonetheless, Mycroft was suddenly extremely worried about his brother and his loyal flatmate. The time for secrecy and covert operations was over. He needed to make some urgent calls.

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 12 October 2012

The group progressed through the forest quietly. They were well trained and communicated with hand signals only. Once they had sight of their target, the leader signalled the group to fan out, while he readied his gun. Tranquiliser only, his boss wanted the intruder alive. The leader smirked; this guy would soon wish he had been killed. A bullet was much kinder than the things he would endure under his boss's care.

A tiny 'plop' was all that was heard as the dart made its way into the target's left arm. The man went limp almost immediately, the binoculars and a phone falling from his hands. It was a powerful anaesthetic and would render the intruder unconscious for hours. The men moved in and hauled him up, while the team leader went for the discarded phone. He saw it light up with an incoming message, but instead of reading it he turned the phone around, removed the battery and sim card and crushed everything under his heavy boot. He signalled his men to retreat back to base, the danger was over. The boss would be pleased.

Sebastian Moran watched the man in front of him with intrigued interest. He had felt, rather than seen, a presence when he was smoking outside and had alerted his guards to watch out for intruders. Out of pure instinct he had ordered his men to bring the intruder to him, instead of just killing him on the spot and dispose of the body in the woods. Not even ten minutes later he had received the call from his head of security that they had captured a single individual observing the house. And now he was staring at the person responsible for him becoming the man he was.

Afghanistan, November 2009

_Lt Col Moran glanced at his CO in disbelief. This could not be. Not after everything he had been through! He had lost a soldier under his command, more than that, a brother in arms, he was allowed to act up a little bit, damn it._

_"Colonel, your conduct over the past few weeks leaves me no choice." He started to flip through the file in front of him. "Assault of a fellow officer, AWOL, drinking while on active duty… And those are just the reported cases. I understand that you lost a comrade, a friend, in Captain Doyle, that's why I looked the other way in the beginning, but I can't do this any longer. It has been more than 3 months and you are not showing any signs of getting over it. If you are smart you are taking the honourable discharge for medical reasons, namely PTSD and go home. If not, there is nothing I can do to prevent a dishonourable discharge due to misconduct and abuse of power. It is your choice, but either way, your career in the SRR is over."_

_They did not understand. They never would. He had always been fine on his own. Changing teams, changing locations, he loved the lifestyle his role provided him with, he enjoyed being in command. He had lost men under his command before, but he was always able to deal with that. Until he met Andrew Doyle. He connected with the other man, felt closer to him than to his own brother. They had, which was rare for SRR members, been on three missions together, paired up because they made the best sniper team in the whole unit. There was no romantic sentiment involved, simply deep respect and mutual understanding. And then that stupid bastard of a Taliban Soldier had taken Andrew away from him. He'd fought for his life for more than two hours, and after they were seemingly safe inside the chopper, Andrew gave up. His heart stopped and although the medic, a Sgt. Murray, could revive him, he later passed away in the hospital in Kabul. Moran could not even be there because his own transport had been delayed and he had only arrived in Kabul three days later, after Andrew's body had been shipped back to England. He had been drunk pretty much ever since._

_Considering his options he decided that his talents would also be on demand on the private market. He would find his new place._

_"Thank you sir, please consider this my resignation. You will have my official letter on your desk by tomorrow. I am sure the MO will provide all necessary medical information." With that he fled from his commander's office._

Hungary, village near Budapest, 12 October 2012

It was really curious how things had turned out. Focusing his mind back on his newest prisoner, he felt a smile creep on his face. 'Yes', he thought, 'This is going to be sooo much more fun now.'

* * *

_AN: Sherlock finally made an appearance! Yay!_

_What do you think? Was it good, was it bad? Feedback is welcome and the only way for me to find out what you think. So review, please?_


	4. Chapter 4

Sorry for the looong wait!

Again, beta'd by **MrsNoggin.** Without her these chapters would be full of typos, bad grammar and inconsistencies. Thank you dear! All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings: **mention of torture

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 12 October 2012

The first thing John noticed when he regained consciousness was that he was no longer in the woods. The floor underneath him was hard and cold. The complete lack of sound was another hint that his location had changed. As he could not remember shifting, the only possible reason was that he was moved by someone else and that meant most likely that he was captured by the group he had been watching. He wracked his brain to figure out what had happened to him, but came out blank. The last thing he remembered was a prick in the arm from what he thought was an insect. Now it seemed more likely that it was a dart from a tranquilizer gun. After that, everything had gone black.

All these thoughts established themselves in his mind the moment he woke up, but to any onlooker it looked like he was still unconscious. Situation awareness was something taught to him during his Special Forces training and it had become a habit to take a few extra seconds to gauge the situation before allowing himself to move and open his eyes. He did it even at home in his own bed, firstly because some things were just that hard to shake off, and, secondly, it helped to know what Sherlock was up to before leaving the relative safety of his bedroom.

Unfortunately, other than the fact that he was most likely alone in this room, unbound and unhurt - except for a slight nausea that hinted at some kind of narcotic drug - there was nothing much to be detected. With a slightly overdramatic groan he rolled over to his side and opened his eyes. Yep, small room, no windows, single door, closed and most likely locked, camera in one corner and a single light bulb dangling from the ceiling that gave off just enough light to illuminate the room. And a metal chair, pushed to the side of the room.

_'Just great,'_ John thought to himself, _'Why do I always get kidnapped whenever Sherlock is involved?'_

He knew that Col. Moran was part of this crew so there was no point in pretending to be scared. That trick had served him well before, but his was not a situation where playing the harmless victim would gain him anything. Instead he gave the door a quick check, just to make sure it was indeed locked, which it was, and then settled in the far corner of the room in direct view of the camera. He was aware that he was in a very dangerous situation, but after weeks and months of misery, loneliness and sitting idle in London, he couldn't help but feel indefinitely more alive sitting in this tiny cell. He snickered, leant back against the wall and allowed himself the first genuine smile since that damned fall. He was prepared to be left alone for awhile, so he shuffled into a somewhat comfortable position and waited.

It turned out John didn't have to wait for long. Barely ten minutes after he regained consciousness the door opened and two armed men entered. One of them grabbed the chair and placed it in the centre of the cell, the other one had pulled his gun and levelled it to Johns head.

"We have been warned you might try to escape. Don't."

John just nodded. He recognised the look in this man's face and he meant every word. Also, he was still weakened from the drug and knew he would not stand a chance against two well trained and armed opponents. He decided to play along for now and to gather as much intel as he could.

The man motioned for him to sit down on the chair and John obliged, feeling his hands roughly pulled back the moment he sat down and secured with cuffs behind his back. He noticed that the second guy threaded the cuffs through a chain attached to the chair, just behind the seat, and again had to appreciate the fact that he was dealing with professionals. The chain would prevent him from just lifting his arms over the back support of the chair and made for a much more secure position.

The two guys left and in strode no other than Sebastian Moran. John caught a brief glimpse of the hall way outside, but it was just as bare as his cell, and there was at least one more armed guard positioned outside his cell. Knowing his old commander and friend, that guard would not be the only one and was most likely excellently trained. His day just got better and better.

Moran closed the door, and turned to John.

"Hello Sebastian, long time no see." John said nonchalantly, trying -and failing- to lighten the mood.

"Hello Andrew, welcome to my modest home." Sebastian paused. "Or should I rather call you Dr John Watson? Which one do you prefer?" His voice was dripping with sarcasm and barely controlled anger.

John did an excellent job hiding his surprise at Sebastian's words. But on the inside his mind went into overdrive. Sebastian knew his real name. But how? Exactly how long had he been working for Moriarty? And why hadn't he contacted John before if he knew that he was alive? They had been friends after all.

"Either is fine, really, although the Andrew you knew died in Afghanistan." There, John managed to sound almost indifferent and bored. Something he had picked up from Sherlock, he realised.

Sebastian on the other hand could no longer contain his rage and didn't even try to hide it. "I KNOW!" He screamed, "They told us when we finally made it back to Base: 'Very sorry Col. Moran, but Cap. Doyle did not make it.' That's all. Case closed, business as usual."

Sebastian started to pace up and down, gesturing wildly and clearly agitated. "We were friends, Andrew. And you just left me behind in that hellish place. Couldn't talk to anybody, Roberts and Adams shipped out to different teams, and no one else knew what had happened. Alcohol helped for a while, but then they kept me off duty. Said I was too dangerous in my current state of mind. Too freaking dangerous, me, can you imagine?! The army spend years training me to be an assassin, and then they just kick me out! Some idiot therapist diagnosed PTSD and they forced me to retire on medical reasons. Thrown away like a broken rifle. Useless."

John flinched. He felt sympathy for Sebastian. After all, he knew only too well how it felt to have no purpose. He had been at a similar place before Sherlock had waltzed into his life. "I am sorry. I did not know. "

Sebastian had stopped his erratic movements and turned to stare at John. His glance was ice cold.

"Spare me your sentiments, John. You went home, found Sherlock _freaking _Holmes and lived happily ever after! You didn't even try to find me, even though_ you_ at least knew that I was alive. I was lost after my return. Until my little brother found me. He gave me a new purpose, a new war. And this time_ we _made the rules." Sebastian's eyes softened at the memory, but John saw a dangerous glimmer in them. "Until you and your precious Sherlock came along and had to ruin everything for the second time!" By then, he had dropped the cool composure and John was finally able to see the madness in his former friend.

"Sebastian, I..."

"DON'T call me that! My real name is Jake. Jake Moriarty."

And with that he turned and left the cell, slamming the door behind him leaving a gasping John behind. Still tied securely to the chair, John was reeling from that last blow.

Sebastian was Jim Moriarty's older brother! Holy crap, that was unexpected, to say the least. And, just like his psychopathic brother, he was dangerously unhinged. The dismissal from the army, coupled with blame over his friends death had left Seb- no - Jake in a vulnerable state, and Jim had taken full advantage. He had molded his older brother into his personal executioner. John thought back to the pool incident, the snipers. Had Jake been one of them? How often had they crossed paths without even realising it? How often had he walked through the crosshairs of a loaded rifle?

And then more recently the snipers on him, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. With what he knew now, John strongly suspected that Sebast- Jake had been his sniper. Jim was always very sly with these kinds of things.

John had tried to locate some of his old team mates after his return to London, Sebastian being the first on his list, but with the cover identities all his enquiries had come out empty. The army refused to give out any information and the classified nature of his old job came back to haunt him. Never had he imagined to see his old friend again under such circumstances!

* * *

Sherlock had heard the commotion outside his cell, it had brought him out of his mind palace and he was annoyed with the guards for being so inconsiderate. They brought in a new prisoner, and judging from the screaming, Jake was not very happy with the poor sod. He found that he didn't really care, as long as the new guy distracted Jake's attention away from him. He was still recovering from his latest confrontation with the mad man, a few days ago:

_He was finally free from the cuffs. Having spent a good amount of time forced into an uncomfortable kneeling position, his shoulders, neck and legs were on fire. His captors forcefully pulled him to his feet and laughed when his shaky knees gave out under him. Humiliation. Sherlock did not care, all that counted was the PAIN that wracked through his body in agonising waves. They brought him to a different room and sat him on a simple chair. Restraints were not necessary, even if he wanted to, he could not move, let alone fight his way through the guards. The ice cold stream of water hit him straight in the back, causing a spike of pain before his weakened body gave out and he let himself fall into the bliss of unconsciousness._

_Upon waking up, he found himself back in his cell, freshly shaved, washed and in clean cloths. Granted, it was only a t-shirt and track pants, but he would take it for now. He had almost given up making sense of any of this erratic handling when Jake Moriarty made an appearance for the first time. Jim's older brother, his main target. That certainly explained the finer details of his treatment. If Jake was anything like his brother, he enjoyed the game much more than the kill. Moriarty taunted him with pictures of John: Going to Tesco's, walking down Baker Street, chatting with Sarah while leaving the clinic. Then Jake pulled out a lighter and held it to the photographs. The message was clear. We know where he is. We can get to him any time._

_When Jake returned the next day, he brought water and food with him. Actual food, not the bland cereal bar he usually received from his handlers. Sherlock was weak, thirsty and starving. Jake set the food down in front of Sherlock and motioned for him to eat._

_"Your good doctor has moved on. He does not care about you any longer, or maybe he never really has. He is living his life as if you never existed."_

_Sherlock wanted to scream at Jake, tell him that John did care about him, but forced himself to concentrate on the food instead._

_"Even your brother has given up on you. You have been missing for a month now, and he has not activated a single of his agents to look for you. Does he really care so little for his baby brother? Maybe he is glad to be finally free of the responsibility. Did you know he calls you a nuisance?"_

_"You see, you are all alone here. Nobody is looking for you. Nobody cares what happens to you. But don't worry, I won't kill you. That would be boring, like my late brother used to say. I will keep you here until you have forgotten how the world outside this room looks, until you have forgotten your own name, consummated by sheer boredom your mind will turn on itself. Then I will return you to your dear doctor. Let him see what the cost of his happy life really was. Do you think he'll like that?" He made a dramatic pause. "If you think your intellect will get you out of here, forget it. I am not my brother; my games are a bit more on the physical side. I will take you apart, break you to the point of no repair. Just seeing you in such a pitiful state will surely break your Johnny's heart, won't it? And then, then I will kill you both, as a reminder for everyone out there that the name Moriarty still stands for something. You will help the Moriarty network back to power, Sherlock, how is that for irony?"_

_Sherlock glared at Jake with an icy stare. But he remained quiet. He would not give in to this lunatic's taunting. Not while he still had the strength to hold on._

Isolation, he never really had experimented much with that, but it was a powerful tool. He'd filed that in his mind palace for later reference. Since Jake's last visit he'd had no contact whatsoever with his captor or the guards. Sherlock almost wished the torture back, at least his mind could concentrate on the pain. Now his injuries were healing and he was bored out of his mind. Literally.

The footsteps in the hall stopped in front of his door and he heard the bolt being released. Finally some action, he thought, even though now he had to deal with an angry _and_ agitated Jake. But only two of the guards entered the room, hauling him to his feet. This time they did not even bother to restrain him with cuffs. '_Interesting_,' he thought. _'The tactic of playing the weakened victim is paying off. Impressionable idiots. Soon they will drop their guard enough for me to escape._'

Jake was waiting in the hallway, in front of an open door.

"Time to meet an old friend. Enjoy it while it lasts." With a devious smile he pushed Sherlock into John's cell and locked the door behind his two prisoners.

* * *

_AN: Next chapter: the Reunion! _


	5. Chapter 5

Special thanks to my beta **MrsNoggin. **This chapter would look very different without her!

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

Sherlock stumbled into the cell and froze. He vaguely heard Jake say something, but the actual words did not register. Every last brain cell in his head was concentrating on the impossible figure sitting in front of him.

"J-John?" Sherlock's own voice was shaky. Interesting, he couldn't even remember the last time that had happened.

"Sherlock! Oh god, it's really you." There was a distinct note of relieve in John's words, but his voice was laced with something else, something Sherlock couldn't quite identify.

Seeing him sitting in that chair was a shock to Sherlock. Never ever had he expected his friend to show up at this miserable place. Mycroft and his minions, yes, but not John. How had he got here? How did he even know to look for him? After the initial shock was over, he took in his friend's appearance and the deductions came in lightning speed, supplying some answers to his most pressing questions.

_'Military clothing, ruffled and with traces of vegetation and soil.'_

_'Sturdy boots, new, worn less than two weeks, muddy.'_

_'New lines on his face, hair a shade greyer, slightly dazed look.'_

So John had left London about two weeks ago to go searching for him. He had expected to run into trouble, hence the military outfit. Most likely Mycroft had briefed him thoroughly on Sherlock's mission and disappearance. He had been camped outside since last night, lying flat on the ground most of the time, probably watching the house they were currently in. The dazed look and the lack of gravel on his shoes suggested that he was drugged and unconscious when he was brought in. The house was surrounded by gravel paths; Sherlock saw traces of tiny stones on all the guards' shoes all the time. John's shoes had no such traces. And although he looked utterly happy to see him, Sherlock could read all the grief and sorrow of the last few months in his face. Grief that he had caused.

These facts all established themselves in his mind in the brief second while he was stepping closer to John.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock hissed.

* * *

John gasped at the sight of his friend. He almost didn't recognise the man in front of him. Sherlock looked terrible. He had lost an alarming amount of weight, his shirt hung loosely on his bony frame and his body was covered with multiple lacerations and bruises. But the scariest sight was his eyes. Their usual spark was gone, replaced with a look of despair and resignation.

_'What has he done to you_?' John thought quietly. '_Am I too late?_'

However, within a split second, everything changed. Sherlock jolted into action, the spark in his eyes was back and he took two quick strides over to his friend.

"What are you doing here?" he hissed, folding his long legs as he squatted down in front of John, but unable to keep his balance, he ended up sitting on the floor in an ungraceful heap.

"Well, hello to you too! Glad you're not dead. Good to see you again." John felt his old anger at his friend's betrayal surfacing. If Sherlock caught the accusing tone, he completely ignored it.

"Yes, whatever." He waved his hands. "You were not surprised to see me, so you must have known that I was still alive and expected to find me here. Mycroft. Maybe sentiment, more likely he had no other resources available and chose to use you. You came to rescue me; however that plan has been compromised by your capture. Now we are both trapped and Jake will try to use you to break me, which makes my position even more difficult. Now, seriously, _why_ are you here?"

John sighed. Sherlock in full deduction mode, as acidic as ever. Still, this was much better than the shadow that had entered the cell.

"You sodding git! I missed you, that's why!" John took a deep breath to calm himself. "This might come as a surprise to you, but I did figure out that you faked your death with my own tiny little brain. Then I convinced Mycroft to tell me the truth and, after learning that you dropped off the radar, I came after you. Didn't expect Moriarty senior to capture me though...and I am still bloody angry that you lied to me."

Sherlock just blinked, but at least he had the decency to remain quiet after his friend's outburst. John felt the tension of the last few months leave his body. He had found his friend, alive and relatively well. The detective may be a bit cracked, but the inside was not damaged yet. He was not too late, now all they had to do was get out of here.

"How?"

"How what?"

"How do you propose we get out of here? In case you had not noticed you are still chained to a chair, we are locked behind a solid steel door, the hallway has at least two guards on patrol at any given time and there is a very real camera up there, recording _everything_."

John noticed the emphasis that Sherlock put on the last word and saw The Look in his pale grey eyes. The look that usually said: _'How can you not get it? It's so obvious!'_ And finally it clicked. Jake was recording everything, of course, he was a surveillance specialist, and so not only a camera but also a microphone was installed in their cell. They were listening to every word spoken.

"Still reading my mind then?" John decided to follow Sherlock's lead and kept his tone neutral and slightly annoyed. When he looked up he found that Sherlock had got up and positioned himself between John and the camera, at an angle that both of their faces were hidden from view. John mouthed a quick "_I got it_" to Sherlock, who in turn dropped his icy facade for a quick moment and allowed John to see the turmoil of emotion that he really felt upon their reunion. John gaped at the quick display of relief joy and guilt before the mask slipped firmly back into place.

"You have always been transparent to me, John." The indifferent, dismissive voice was back and Sherlock moved over to the wall, not bothering to hide his face from the camera.

"Well, then you should know that I don't have a plan, but I am sure you can figure something out. With your massive intellect and all!"

Sherlock gave him a short nod and leaned back against the wall, sliding down to a sitting position and stretching out his long legs, effectively hiding his entire upper body in the dead spot of the camera, but making it look so casual that it would not arouse any suspicion. Sherlock closed his eyes and the look of exhaustion and despair slid back into his face. It was so rare to see real emotion in Sherlock and in the last few minutes he had displayed a wide range, from shock to relief, happiness to misery. John sobered as he realised that this display of emotion meant that Sherlock's usual filters were compromised and there could be only one reason for that.

He switched into doctor mode. Drawing upon his own experience with trauma patients, he analysed Sherlock's behaviour. The detective had been imprisoned by Jake for a month and by the looks of it, hadn't received the best of treatment. He was obviously exhausted, yet he put on a strong face and hid his weariness from Jake. John knew from experience that strategy could not be kept up endlessly and the look in Sherlock's eyes earlier confirmed that his armour had already been cracked. Abuse over extended periods of time left scars and while Sherlock was very good at covering them up, John knew they were there; he had treated enough soldiers that had been captured by the enemy to recognise the signs. The sudden changes of mood, the pretence that everything is exactly the same as before and the shrugging off of the mistreatment as nothing major. But it _was_ major and it _did_ hit eventually. Just because psychological torture left no visible scars it did not mean that they weren't there. John just hoped that he could get Sherlock out before he crashed completely.

He really wanted to get a proper look at Sherlock's injuries, but as he was still restrained to this damned chair that would have to wait. He settled for information instead. There was really no point in hiding this information from Jake, so John decided to simply blurt it out.

"Ok, there are some things about my past that you don't know. Maybe it will help you to get some perspective. So here it goes..."

John told Sherlock the same story he had told Mycroft. He added the information about his shooting and Jake's turn to insanity. During his tale, Sherlock opened his eyes and listened to John with intense attention.

"I fail to see how this information is relevant to us getting out of here." Sherlock sounded almost bored, however his blazing eyes told a different story:

_'You still manage to surprise me.'_

They continued the conversation non-verbally. It was a skill they had developed over time. Sherlock had always been able to read other people like open books; a slightly elevated eyebrow, a tiny flinch of the lips, he could interpret the information effortlessly. It was not as easy for John, but they eventually found that he was a decent lip reader. In combination with the growing familiarity that comes automatically when living in such close quarters, they were both utilised to interpret each other's facial expressions into actual conversation. It was a handy skill and John used it routinely to rein back Sherlock before he offended yet another witness.

Shaking off his little musing, John flinched slightly and looked apologetic. _'I didn't keep it from you on purpose.'_

_'I know.'_ Sherlock mouthed, and then he broke the eye contact, looking down briefly, before glancing back at John. _'He will hurt you.'_

John nodded almost unnoticeably and sat up a little bit straighter, lifted his chin and focused his uncompromising gaze right at Sherlock's._ 'I can handle it.'_

_'You shouldn't have to.'_ Sherlock gave him a pained look that almost made John gasp in surprise. Another unexpected display of emotion and it caught him off guard. John's face softened as he took in the exhausted look of the other man. He made a weak attempt at a sad smile and hoped it conveyed the right message to Sherlock:

_'It will be ok. We will be ok.'_

Out loud, John said: "I am tired of this. How idiotic of me to think you would be glad to see me. Don't worry, I'm sure Jake will get you out of this misery soon enough and throw you back into your own cell. Now, shut up and let me sleep!"

With a huff he closed his eyes and sent a silent prayer to whoever would listen that Sebastian/Jake or whatever his name was, did believe this little charade. Otherwise things were about to get really uncomfortable.

John took stock of their current situation. Sherlock was weakened, physically and mentally, but still fighting. However, he couldn't keep the fight up indefinitely. His own position was only marginally better, although he was so far unhurt, he was certain that was about to change. And the fact that he was chained to a chair did not improve his chances at overpowering an opponent. He needed more intel on how Jake ran his operation: how many guards, shift changes, where the cameras and microphones were hidden and the like. Information he knew how to get, but it required time. And time was the one thing they did not have.


	6. Chapter 6

As always, beta'd by **MrsNoggin.** All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings: **mention of torture

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 12 October 2012

Jake Moriarty was sitting in his surveillance room. In front of him were four large screens, three of them showed several smaller windows with a live feed from the various cameras scattered throughout the house and grounds. Ignoring all the smaller images, his gaze was fixed on the large monitor on his right, which showed the feed from the cell with John and Sherlock inside. He turned up the volume to better hear his prisoners' conversation.

Over the next few minutes Jake grew more and more agitated. No... no no...NO! This was not what was supposed to happen. Sherlock was supposed to be happy to see his friend, or at least show some sort of response, not this cold hearted indifference! If he did not care about John, then that would make his plan a lot less effective. Jake grabbed the keyboard in front of him and threw it through the room. The action did not solve his problem, but it helped to vent his anger. He focussed on the screen again. And then he noticed it. There was something else going on. Beside the spoken words. John's eyes flickered up to the camera and stayed there for a tad too long. Sherlock's face was hidden from view, but John seemed to react to some kind of signal. His facial expression changed from apologetic to defiant to smiling in the matter of seconds, too sudden to be a coincidence. And his gaze was fixed upon Sherlock the entire time. A silent communication! So his two captives knew about the microphone and tried to play him...

With new resolve, Jake got up. He wanted revenge for what Sherlock had done to his brother, and he would get it, one way or another! He would break that arrogant bastard, wipe that smug smile off his face and if it was the last thing he ever did! And if John happened to end up as collateral damage, so be it!

He stared back at the TV screen showing John's silent face with new awoken hatred as he though back to the first time he had seen him after Afghanistan.

UK, London, February 2012

_Jacob Moriarty sat opposite his brother in a small café in central London. The PTSD diagnosis had pretty much destroyed his chances of getting hired as a mercenary, even private security firms did not like to employ trained killers that were officially psychologically unstable. Eventually, he had run out of options and had to call his little brother for assistance. They had been estranged for years and had little contact while Jake was in the Army, but he knew that Jim was running a big, albeit rather shady organisation. Despite their past differences, Jim was surprisingly helpful and had taken him in as his second in command and trusted assassin immediately. Over the course of the first few months in his brother's organisation, Jake learned exactly why Jim had taken him in so easily: In an organisation like his, it was impossible to find real loyalty, real trust. Except from a family member._

_Initially Jake was appalled by the thought of killing innocent civilians, but Jim made it clear that this was just another war, another us against them and he soon found himself enjoying their little games. His brother really had a flair for the overly dramatic..._

_The game changed one fateful day when he found Jim obsessing over some photographs in his office. Approaching his little brother, he managed to get a glimpse of several of the pictures and suddenly had to steady himself on the heavy desk._

_"Jake? Did you just see a ghost or do you have an actual explanation for messing up my desk?"_

_"These-, these men, on that picture ... who are they?"_

_"Oh, my favourite plaything, Sherlock Holmes, and his little pet, John Watson. Why?" His tone grew sharp. "Do you know them, brother?"_

_Jake took a deep breath and steadied himself. "Yes. Yes, you could say that."_

_After that Jake had started his own obsession. While his brother played out his power games with Sherlock Holmes, he followed John wherever he went. He had him in his crosshairs more than once, but his brother had forbidden him from harming the good doctor. Something about the game being more fun with John around. So he stood back and watched, like a bird of prey patiently waiting for his opportunity to strike. _

_And then that one fateful day at St. Bart's changed everything. He wanted to shoot John, but his brother's orders had been clear. Only after he found out that Jim was dead, he dared to make a move on his former friend, but by that time he was already enclosed by a tight security detail, no doubt courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. Jake decided to give up on his target for the moment, a tactical retreat, he could afford to wait. His chance would come and then the good doctor would meet his fate. And this time he would stay dead._

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 13 October 2012

They were dragged into a small room, no more than 4m long and 3 m wide, with 2 chairs positioned opposite each other. The guards pushed Sherlock to the far chair, while John was dumped unceremoniously into the chair closer to the door. Both chairs had arm rests and John and Sherlock found their wrists secured to the chairs by handcuffs the moment they sat down. The guards proceeded to secure their ankles in a similar fashion and then left the room, closing the heavy door behind them.

John tried his range of movement, but found it to be very limited. He had a quick look around. No cameras that he could see, also no obvious microphones, but they might be hidden under the seats.

"There are no recording devices in here. I was here before, for some of Jake's 'entertainment'. Your chair is new, obviously." Of course, Sherlock could read him like an open book. So this was the torture chamber where they had held Sherlock before. He felt a shudder go down his spine at the thought of someone hurting his friend. He tried to lighten the mood.

"Bit uncomfortable, this."

"Yes, the accommodation here lacks the usual amenities I prefer. Now I see why you are so opposed to all the kidnappings. It _is_ rather bothersome." The corners of his mouth twitched upwards, into one his rare, genuine smiles. John couldn't help but to grin back at him. But the smile slipped off Sherlock's face almost immediately and he gave John one long, scrutinizing look. When he finally spoke his voice was raw and broken.

"I am sorry I left you behind. Knowing what I know now I should have told you the truth. I was just trying to protect you, to keep you safe. I failed."

While speaking, he had let his mask slip and John saw the turmoil play in the younger man's eyes. His friend looked at him with an almost shy expression, and suddenly John could see all the insecurities that Sherlock always displayed when dealing with genuine emotion.

"Forgive me."

John was floored. Sherlock rarely apologised. But unfortunately now was not the time for emotional reunions.

"I forgave you the moment Mycroft told me that you jumped to save Mrs Hudson and Greg." John set his jaw and gave Sherlock a hard glance. "But now I need your help to save both of us!"

He'd realised that this was probably the last moment to get his friend's attention without anyone listening in.

"Sherlock, I need you to listen to me very carefully. We both know what's going to happen. It will be – _painful_ for you to watch." John said this in such a matter-of-fact voice that Sherlock looked up at him sharply. "What? Just stating the facts here. I need you to know that it is ok. No matter what he does to me, no matter how bad it looks, he won't kill me. Jake knows that I am much more valuable to him alive than dead. And I was trained for situations like this. You were not, so please, just follow my lead for once, ok? Tune it out, retreat to your mind palace, whatever helps you, but don't let him get to you! Please Sherlock, can you do that for me?"

Sherlock gave a short nod and composed his features. Unmoving, the two friends waited in silence.

* * *

Jake Moriarty entered the room in a similar fashion to his younger brother. Loud and preposterous.

"Hello my darlings, I hope I don't not leave you waiting for too long, important business, you know how it is. It is impossible to get decent staff these days."

Sherlock started to smile, one of his big, smug and very fake smiles. As expected, it triggered Jake immediately. He whirled around and grabbed Sherlock's forearms, lowering his face until it was right in front of the detective's.

"What is so funny about that?" he snarled.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a second gave a heavy sigh. "_Please_ don't be dull. Are you really missing the humour in the fact that I am the one responsible for your sudden lack of manpower? Or in your complete inability to lead a criminal network as vast and brilliant as the one created by your late brother?"

John flinched. Sherlock really had a talent for pissing people off.

"Don't you DARE to talk about my brother! You shot him, you have no right –"

"_I _shot _him_?" Sherlock interrupted. "Get your facts straight before you start accusing innocent people. Your dear brother shot himself." Jake stared at him blankly. "Oh, you did not know this, did you? Never bothered to get your hands on the police report then? And _you _want to be the new leader of the Moriarty crime network? You? You're pathetic! Your brother, now he was brilliant. Insane, but brilliant nevertheless. You are just a soldier, useful as the brawl, but you will never have his brains. Even without my help, your brother's legacy would fall apart sooner rather than later."

John understood what Sherlock was trying to do. Keeping Jake's focus on himself, throwing him off his intended plan, trying to keep John safe. All noble reasons, but John knew Jake, or rather, he knew Sebastian. He was a dangerous man, especially when provoked. He decided to intervene before the situation got out of hand.

"Sebastian, Sherlock is right. You are no criminal, you are a soldier. And a damn fine one. You swore to protect your country. And you did make a difference. Jim is gone and you are free to live your own life. To step out of his shadow. You don't have to prove anything here." He had used Sebastian's name on purpose, trying to remind the man of his other identity.

Jake slowly let go of Sherlock and turned around to John, who used his most innocent look to convey his sincerity. Unfortunately, John's tactics did not pan out. Instead of reminding Jake of his good side, John had inadvertently given Jake the cue to turn into a more controlled soldier mode. John immediately realised his mistake when he saw the face of his captor turn into a cold and cruel grin. The crazy gleam that had resided there moments ago was gone, replaced by controlled hatred.

"Johnny boy, how right you are!" The mocking tone was back, but his time it held no humour whatsoever. "I am a soldier, trained to kill my enemies, to extract information by any means necessary." He turned to Sherlock and stage whispered, "He would know because he went through the same training." Turning back to John his voice turned icy. "Didn't you John?"

"You know what I am capable of. You know the methods they taught us. You even have firsthand experience of using them yourself, haven't you?" He stepped back to watch both of his prisoners.

Sherlock only just managed to wipe the shock off his face before Jake could catch it. But his mind was trying to process the information. John – his John – his calm, kind and nice John had used torture? A look into John's face confirmed Jake's words, his expression was pained, haunted by old memories.

"Yes, that's right, innocent little Johnny here hurt people. He even killed. But not only during the war, right John? The taxi driver in London, that was not an act of war, that was just you, John Watson, murdering a civilian. Now, who are you to judge me? How are you any different from me? We both dropped out of the war against our will; we both were picked up by men who were able to supply us with the adrenalin rush we crave so badly. And you ended up on the losing side, John. Because you are on my turf now, and don't expect any kind of special treatment from me. I carried you through the mountains once, don't expect that kindness again."

He glanced at his two prisoners with satisfaction. John looked absolutely miserable, and Sherlock, well his face was as unmoving as always. But Jake was sure that at least one or two of his blows had hit its target and cracked the detective's defences. All he had to do was keep this game going, and he would reach his goals.

"I've been going slowly with you, Sherlock. Well, as John here managed to find us, I am certain that annoying brother of yours is not far behind. So we have to step up the speed a little bit. The time for subtleties is over. While I gather my supplies, I'll leave you two to it. I am sure you have plenty of things to discuss."

With that he turned and swiftly left the room.

* * *

_AN: __Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? _


	7. Chapter 7

This chapter was a challenge to write, and I can't thank my beta **MrsNoggin** (and MrN!) enough for her help finding the right dose of emotion. All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings: **Torture

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 13 October 2012

Sherlock barely noticed the door slam shut behind Jake. His gaze was focused on his friend who was trying to regain composure. He realised he knew next to nothing about John's army time, he hadn't even known about his special operations status. It was never relevant information, he had deduced enough to know that John could handle himself with or without a weapon and that was enough. But it wasn't enough anymore. They were in the hands of a madman who knew everything about John's past. And he was using it to hurt John. Oh, not in the physical sense, but torturing John's mind with long suppressed images of horror and war.

"John?"

"_Don't_. Just... leave me alone."

"He is wrong. You are not the same. You are a good man."

John's answer was immediate and angry. "Am I, Sherlock? You have no idea what I did during the war!" In a much quieter voice he added, "What they made me do. I was a good soldier, following orders, but I was not a good man. Or a good doctor. I used my medical knowledge to inflict pain. I denied treatment to prisoners. I killed people. Sometimes from afar through the sniper rifle, but sometimes I was close, could see the life fade out of their eyes. These images are burned into my mind."

He continued to speak, his voice turned bitter. "People like you and Jim, you can distance yourself from these pictures and you can choose not to care. Human beings are just parts of the puzzle for you, not important in the grand scheme of things. But I cared about each and every one of them. And that is not a good thing in a warzone, trust me. I had to learn to tune it out. The hard way, because I had no other choice."

John paused, struggling with the memories. "The first enemy soldier I killed... god, he was just a kid. Barely out of his teens. He had snuck up onto one of my nurses and I was the only one with a clear shot. I took it, he died and the nurse lived. Couldn't sleep for weeks afterwards. My commander took me aside, told me to get a grip or he would send me home. I couldn't go home. The army had paid for my medical studies; if they sent me home prematurely then I would have to pay back the tuition fees. My family does not have that kind of money, failure was not an option. So I adapted. Learned to distance myself. And eventually it worked." He stopped and looked up to Sherlock, making eye contact for the first time since Jake left.

And Sherlock understood. Suddenly, all the clues he had missed, all the little pieces fell into place. He continued when John stopped.

"Actually, it worked so well that Andrew Doyle was born. He was the tough and ruthless soldier, so that John Watson could continue to be the good doctor. He was more than just a cover identity. He was a part of you. Then your superiors decided to kill off Andrew Doyle and sent you home, suddenly you had to cope with the onslaught of bad memories again. The nightmares must have been crippling. That was how you found me, about to crumble under the horrors in your own mind. But by me giving you a new chase, a new purpose, you could unleash Andrew again. John could push the dark thoughts away and become the friendly flatmate everyone loves. A classic case of dissociative disorder. Fascinating, really, I'll have to do some experiments when we get back home. How did your therapist miss _that_?"

John had nodded through Sherlock's deductions. Spot on, as always. "She does not have access to my SRR file. Only the normal army files. She never stood a chance. The only ones who saw right through me were you and Mycroft."

"I didn't see it. Not until just now," Sherlock frowned.

"Well, you have never met Andrew. Not really. Just glimpses of him. Bit hard to get the whole picture from that. But you knew that my limp was psychosomatic and that a good adventure would cure it. Mycroft said I miss the war. It was not the war I missed; it was the adrenaline rush, the danger. It took you less than a day to give all of that back to me." He gave Sherlock a sad smile. "So please don't tell me that I am a good man, if I had met Moriarty instead of you that day, I could very well be in Jake's position right now!"

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He wondered if John was right. The chance meeting with Sherlock had brought out the caring doctor, while giving the lethal soldier just enough action to stay satisfied. With the wrong influence could it have gone the other way round just as easily?

"No, you couldn't. You came out on top, because that is who you are. You did some terrible things, but deep down, John Watson is and always was a good man. And that is what people like Jake or Jim will never understand. For them violence is always an option, and collateral damage does not matter. For you, it is the last option, used reluctantly and targeted."

"Thank you."

"What for?"

"For believing in me. For trusting me."

After a long pause, Sherlock continued, "I am certain the next session with Jake will be less than pleasing for us. He thinks that he won the first round, which will boost his confidence to go for bolder methods next. And you will most likely be on the receiving end. A little bit of acting from your side might help to prevent things from going too far."

John pursed his lips, clearly considering something in his mind. Sherlock could see the moment he came to a conclusion as his face relaxed and then broke into a knowing smile.

"Just watch." John said.

And then it happened. All of the sudden there was no trace of the mild mannered doctor left in John's features. Sherlock barely recognised the man sitting opposite him. The look in his eyes was cold, calculative and held a dangerous gleam, like a caged animal, waiting to be unleashed. His whole posture projected strength and unyielding willpower. Sherlock realised that the man sitting opposite him was dangerous. He had killed before and he would do so again without hesitation, if the situation required it.

The ease with which John slipped into this alter ego made Sherlock slightly uncomfortable. John had been right, he had never seen the full transformation, all he had ever seen were small traces of Andrew shining through. This was a change on a completely different scale. He understood why John had hidden it from everyone. It was unsettling.

And then, all of the sudden, his John was back. Concern showing on his gentle face.

"Sherlock?"

"When -, when you become _him, _are you still in control? Or is it Andrew taking over completely?"

"I am still me. It's hard to describe how it works, maybe a bit like acting, only instead of pretending to be someone, you really become that someone. Like putting on a suit and becoming a superhero. But I am always in control. Being Andrew just makes certain things, certain _decisions_ easier."

Sherlock nodded, relieved. It was comforting to know that John remained himself inside. Then he frowned and put on a pouty face.

"How could I miss this? I never miss the important things!"

"Are you _serious_? I just tell you that I have an alternate personality inside me and all you are upset about is that you didn't deduce this from the way I tie my shoelaces! This is really eating you up, isn't it?"

"Of course it is! Don't you see? I always see through people the moment I meet them. Not with you though. You posed an interesting puzzle from the moment we met. There was something in you that didn't quite fit, something hidden. That's why I choose you as flat mate in the first place. Needed more time to figure it out."

"Oh, so that's what it was? You were intrigued by me? All this time, I have been a puzzle that you just couldn't solve?" John felt his temper flare up.

"No! At first yes, but it turned into something else after our first case together. I knew I had found a kindred spirit, a true friend. Someone who would not judge me. So I backed off." He levelled his eyes with John's. "You are the first and only puzzle I ever gave up on. Because the possibility of driving you away was unbearable."

"Sherlock, I -, you -, god...what a mess..." He stuttered, unable to voice out his confusing emotions. His anger had died down with Sherlock's explanation, but he still felt conflicted about the whole matter "Look, let's get through this first. We will figure things out once we are back home, all right?"

Sherlock nodded his consent. John was right; this was neither the time nor the place to work through all their issues. For now they had to focus on beating Jake Moriarty.

* * *

Jake walked into the room again, but his time he held some tools in his hands. John blanched slightly as he recognised the items: One very solid looking hammer and a 6" combat knife. He knew at least ten different ways how each of these items could be utilised to inflict non-lethal wounds and none of them were pleasant. Facing Sherlock, Jake started.

"The arrival of your loyal pet here has screwed with my plans. I thought I would have longer to play with you and now I have to rush things. And I hate rushing through this. But don't worry, I will still have plenty of time to finish what I started. And John will help me to achieve that goal. I know you don't care much about being hurt yourself, but how about watching your friend suffer?"

The method Jake was using on Sherlock was familiar to John; he had witnessed it in Afghanistan. It was the first step in breaking someone's will. Give them a simple decision, with an easy way out. Once the victim starts begging, raise the stakes. It was similar to training a dog; desired behaviour gets rewards, undesired behaviour gets punishment. With the right incentives and proper execution, it was a very effective method to destroy all the defences of the victims. After that, they could be moulded into any shape desired.

Jake continued his taunting. "Are you really that cold to let him endure endless pain? Knowing that you can make it stop anytime? Hmm?" Jake paused and fixed his cruel gaze on Sherlock, searching for any sign that the younger man was affected by his speech, but Sherlock just stared at him with unimpressed apathy.

"Fine. Have it your way then. I have sooo many ways in which I can hurt John. And I will enjoy every last second of it. And all you have to do to stop it is ask me nicely. Beg me to stop hurting your friend and I will. Simple."

"I am not stupid." Sherlock's voice was cold as he answered. "But you might as well just go ahead. I never cared much for him, and with what I know now, that he is a killer, I definitely can't be bothered to." John had to remind himself that Sherlock was just acting. But damn, that had been very convincing. "But please, don't be boring. If I have to watch, at least be entertaining."

"Entertaining! Ha, we shall see. I will use my trusted knife, like _this_!" He shouted the last word while turning lightning fast and stabbed the knife into John's right knee, not penetrating more than half an inch. John had not been expecting the blow and could not suppress a hiss. Jake smirked.

"At the moment the damage is minimal. But I will drive it in further, inch-by-inch, very slowly. It is angled in way that it won't hit any major blood vessels or bones, but will destroy cartilage and tendons. From what I hear it is very painful, and can result in permanent damage. Ask me to stop and John will walk out of here, stay quiet and he might never walk again. Your choice!" He gave Sherlock a diabolical smile.

John was mentally recalling everything he knew about the anatomy of the human knee, taking into account the angle of the knife and the penetration depth. Jake was correct. The damage he was about to cause would be beyond repair, even if he would get medical attention right away, which was unlikely.

Ignoring the pain in his knee John focussed on his friend. Sherlock face looked calm and composed, but he could see the anger and barely controlled rage behind the cool facade. He gave him a sharp glance to remind the detective of his earlier promise. A little twitch of the lip and the suddenly vacant look in Sherlock's eyes told John all he needed to know. His friend was safe in his mind palace.

"Is this all you've got? I mean, Sherlock is clearly not the least bit interested in what happens to me, so we might as well leave it." John hoped he could lure Jake into abandoning his little game.

"You're right, he does look a bit bored. So, entertainment it is!" He grabbed the hammer and drove the knife in further. John screamed.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, I got distracted by the BBC Drama trailer and had to get some ideas out of my system... in the form of a 221B which you can find on my profile.

Thanks to my beta **MrsNoggin** for her endless patience dealing with confused writers! All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Disclaimer:** All recognisable characters belong to ACD and the Masters Moffat and Gatiss. Until they invite me into their club on genius writers I shall own nothing!

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 13 October 2012

Sitting alone in the dark, the boredom threatened to take over again. His thoughts wandered back to his friend. He'd missed John every single day since he left London, but convinced himself that it was better this way. Until he saw him again, he'd never realized just how wrong he had been about that. Had it really only been a few hours since he had walked back into his life? It seemed so much longer; but then, they had been a rather eventful few hours. The arrival of John and the following reveals by both his friend and Jake had shaken Sherlock more than he would ever admit. All of his life he had been able to get any relevant information by simply looking at a person and suddenly his own deduction skills had been proven unreliable. It was unsettling and Sherlock, for the first time in his adult life, felt insecure.

He had trouble fitting the new information into his mental picture of John. He was a Special Forces soldier. Had he done to prisoners what had been done to him? He had more or less confessed it. Could he really be that cruel? Just how much of his Andrew personality had taken over during these events; how much of it had been John's own doing? Despite his earlier reassurance to John, the seed of doubt had been planted in his head and Sherlock could not stop the pictures that flashed before his eyes.

_John's screams as Jake forced the knife deeper and deeper._

_Feeling helpless as he knew he could do nothing to help John, any interference could only make things worse._

_More screams, blood staining Johns trousers, making the black fabric shiny as it was sticking to his leg._

_John finding and holding his eyes, pleading with him to remain silent._

_Jake's gleeful grin as John finally passed out from the pain._

Then the scenery changed, suddenly John was the one that held the knife, threatening a faceless prisoner. As Sherlock looked closer he recognised the face, it was his own.

_'No!' _his rational mind argued,_ 'John would never hurt me. He's my friend.'_

_'Is he though?' _his tortured, confused mind answered, funnily enough using Jake's voice. Or was it Jake talking to him? Reality became blurry. _'He kept things from you. Important things. How can you still trust him? He hurt people before, and he will do it again and next time it will be you.'_

_'He would never betray me. He is too loyal. He went through hell for me just now!'_

_'You left him behind. You hurt him first. He is angry about that, what if he decides to take revenge? He and Jake were once friends, what will stop John from going back to that friendship?_

"NO!" He yelled out loud, desperately trying to make sense of the pictures in his mind.

Faces started to melt together; John, Jake, himself, reality and fantasy becoming one and the same as his mind went into meltdown.

Sherlock let out a desperate whimper and curled up into a tight ball, his hands clamped around his head, trying to hold it together. His own mind failed him, just as he had failed John. He tried to access his mind palace, to sort through all the information that was whirling around in his head, confusing him.

But the door was firmly locked. He could not enter. His mind palace was not available to him anymore. He frantically tried to breach the door, but the harder he tried, the further he felt himself slipping away. 'Too much,' he screamed inside his head, 'all of this is just too much!' Succumbing to the mental onslaught, he fell into the streams of darkness.

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 14 October 2012

All things considered, John had been in worse situations. Ok, his knee was killing him, but apparently Jake did not want him to die of an infection, because he found strong antiseptic powder and several packs of sterile gauze in his cell. After cleaning the wound he assessed the damage. It didn't take him long to figure that he was in trouble. His range of motion was severely limited and he could not even support minimal weight on his right leg. Not good. Even with immediate medical care and reconstructive surgery chances of full recovery were slim. Being trapped in a basement cell miles away from the nearest hospital, the chance was zero.

John got as comfortable as possible on the bare concrete floor. The fight for survival had only just begun and he was already severely wounded. He needed to replenish his energy in order to make it through more of Jake's 'entertainment' sessions. His mind was still on high alert from the joy of being reunited with Sherlock and the challenge to save his friend and escape from Jake's prison. He used an old trick he had learned from a seasoned Sergeant in Afghanistan and concentrated on the most boring, yet easy subject he could find. John started reciting the bones of the human foot, beginning with the distal phalanx of the little toe. It was one of his favourite methods to shut down his mind and get to sleep in even the most inhospitable places. It worked, and he managed to sleep for a few hours and that left him somewhat refreshed.

His general position was unchanged after his nap, and his knee hurt like hell. On the positive side, he had found Sherlock, and they were still alive. He was provided with food and water and the cell even had a toilet, of sorts.

The other thing that comforted John was that Mycroft knew exactly where he was. Calculating back to his last text, he estimated that he had been captured by Jake Moriarty more than thirty-six hours ago, which meant that Mycroft should be getting worried right about now. If he did not get in touch within the next twelve hours, Mycroft would activate a search and rescue team to check up on his last known location. John winced – it would most likely end up in a blood bath; most of Moriarty's men were former military and not shy to shoot on sight. He really needed to find a way out of here, maybe–

Before he could finish that thought, the door opened and two of the guards entered, grabbed John by his arms and hauled him to his feet. His knee gave out under the sudden weight, but the guards paid no attention to it, instead mercilessly dragging him out of the cell and down the hallway. John recognised the way they were going from before; they were taking him to the torture chamber again!

He tried to resist, but stood no chance against the two guards and soon found himself bound to that same chair again. Only this time his hands were tied behind his back with rope, instead of handcuffs and this gave him a bit more freedom to move. His feet were free, but with only one leg working he doubted he could get out of the chair.

The door opened again and Sherlock was brought in, secured to the other chair in the same way as John. The guards left and they were alone.

John looked up, expecting to see Sherlock's deductive look, but instead all he saw was a blank face.

"Sherlock?"

John waited for a reaction from the detective, but he didn't even appear to have heard him. Pushing the shock aside, John went into full medical mode and analysed his friend's appearance. Sherlock seemed, for the lack of a better word, vacant. His face held no expression; his eyes were unfocused and blank. He had shown no resistance when the guards brought him in, just quiet compliance. John briefly closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to control the panic that was threatening to take over.

"Sherlock! Please. Please don't leave me now!" This time his voice was pleading, but John did not care. If Sherlock was really lost in his own mind, and all signs pointed to that, then he would do anything to reach him. Anything at all.

If Jake came in now, he would recognise Sherlock's state for what it was. The guards had hopefully believed this to be the detective's usual attitude and neglected to realise that it was not played this time. Jake would not be that easy to fool. He was waiting for Sherlock to break, seeing him in such an unresponsive state would be one step closer to success for the maniac.

"SHERLOCK!" John was screaming at the top of his lungs. He didn't know what else to do. "Wake up!" The high pitched scream seemed to have some kind of effect, and John saw a minute twitching of an eyebrow. So his friend _was _still in there somewhere. He changes his tactics slightly.

"It's me, John. I could really use your help here, Sherlock." He tried again and again, calling out to Sherlock, giving his friend something constant to focus on. The signs of consciousness slowly increased; there was more movement, more response to John's words. He kept talking, encouraging Sherlock to keep trying, hoping that the sound of his voice was enough to prevent Sherlock from slipping back into his mind again. And then, finally, recognition seeped back into Sherlock's features, he blinked a few times, trying to get the world back into focus.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was faint and weak. John let out a relieved sigh.

"Good to have you back. You scared me for a minute there. How are you? What happened?"

"Pain, hurt... mind palace...no, broken..." He shook his head, whimpering.

Now John was truly scared. Even when woken up in the middle of the night, Sherlock was always fully alert within seconds. He had never seen Sherlock in such a state, so utterly lost and broken. And while he was not completely catatonic, he was far from being fully conscious. He was reacting to stimulus, had some degree of recognition, but was unable to form coherent sentences.

Suddenly John heard footsteps from outside. Jake. Shit. They were running out of time.

"Jake is coming, do you understand what that means?" John spoke with a sense of urgency and hoped to God that his friend would pick up on it. "He must not realise that anything is wrong."

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows but gave no other indication that he understood John.

"Listen to me carefully Sherlock. I will distract Jake, and while I am doing that, I need you to free your hands. They used rope this time; you should be able to wriggle out of it. Think you can manage that?"

Sherlock gave John no sign of acknowledgement. At first John thought that he had slipped back into his unresponsive state, but then he noticed a rhythmic motion in Sherlock's arm muscles. So he had heard him.

* * *

Jake walked in with the same knife in hand as the last time, but at least this time there was no hammer. When he turned around to close the door behind him, John got a glimpse of a gun tucked into his trousers behind his back. He frowned. Guns were not exactly preferred torture tools during his time in the SRR, they were used to end things. So this was it. Jake's ultimate game.

"How was your night? I hope you had a good rest?"

Neither of the two captives reacted to the question.

"Not very vocal this morning, are we? Well, I can change that."

He strode over to John and slapped him hard in the face. John suppressed a hiss and remained rigid in his chair. Sherlock just stared blankly at them.

"Now, Sherlock, the game has not changed since yesterday, it is still in your hand to stop me from hurting John. Are you going to do anything about it?"

There was no response. And then understanding washed over Jake's face.

"Or, could it be that you _can't_ do anything?" He brutally grabbed Sherlock's chin with his right hand and tilted his head upwards, staring into the pale eyes of the detective, and found his suspicion confirmed. With a dismissive motion he let go of Sherlock and walked to the wall, leaning against it with both his arms and rested his head against the cool and damp concrete.

At first John thought that Jake was crying, but soon it turned into full out laughter. It took several minutes for the criminal to calm down and John was appalled by the hysterical noise.

He looked over at Sherlock with a concerned glance. His head hung down and there was no movement at all. He desperately hoped that Sherlock was at least partially pretending to be so far gone, hoped that he was still conscious and aware of what was going on, biding his time for an attack. But John knew that it was just as likely that with Jake's entry Sherlock had reverted back into his catatonic state and that thought scared him more than anything else.

"Well, well, Johnny, looks like you helped me achieve something in hours which I could not do in weeks. You broke the great Sherlock Holmes. You should be proud of yourself."

John didn't feel proud. He felt miserable. But with the misery came a familiar strength. Backed into a corner, with seemingly no way out, John let Andrew's power and savage wash through him.

"Now that I have reached my goal with our dear detective, I can finally take my revenge on you. Prepare yourself John; this will be neither quick nor painless!"

John swallowed hard and steeled himself for what was to come. He would not give in to Jake's taunting; he would not give him the satisfaction of begging for his life. The real fight for survival had just begun and he had not come here to lose. He had come to save his friend, and that was exactly what he was going to do.

* * *

_AN: This story has been viewed by readers from 50 countries! You guys are a truly international bunch. Thank you all for your continued support, be it by reviewing, favoring, following or simply reading this story! _


	9. Chapter 9

Short chapter, but the one you have been waiting for. The boys finally fight back!

A quick thank you to all my reviewers who are either not logged in or don't allow PM. Your feedback means the world to me and I really appreciate you taking the time to write a quick note! Thank you!

Beta'd by **MrsNoggin**, who worked overtime for this chapter, I lost count on how often we revised this! All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warning:** graphic violence, torture and blood

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 14 October 2012

Noise, lights, movement, forceful arms that dragged him forward, Sherlock's world was one confusing mess of sensation. He never felt this lost before. Suddenly he heard something that broke through the chaos. A sound…No, a voice. It was very familiar and soothing to his frayed nerves. It helped him to channel his tumultuous mind into one direction. Awareness came back slowly, but he could feel himself drift towards the light again, no longer drowning in the darkness. He did not understand words, but the sound alone served as a beacon.

"SHERLOCK!" This sound, desperate and scared finally brought him fully back into the light.

"John?"

"Good to have you back. You scared me for a minute there. How are you? What happened?" Getting back into the upper levels of consciousness had been hard, but staying there proved even harder. The massive onslaught of unprocessed memories crashed down on him again.

"Pain, hurt... mind palace...no, broken..."

Pain, so much pain. Why did his head hurt so much?

There, John's voice, he tried to hold on to that, wait, what was it saying? Why was it so unreasonably difficult to listen? Ropes? Something about free, that sounded nice...

He experimentally tried out his range of motion and found to his surprise that the ropes around his wrists were not as tight as usual. Maybe he could try to free himself, while listening to John's voice. That seemed like a reasonable target.

He was drifting again when suddenly there was a second voice. Not nearly as nice as John's and even worse, it made John silent. He recognised that voice. It belonged to... to...not Jim, but... Jake! Yes, Jake, Jim's brother. Not good, Jake was bad news. John had said something about Jake... yes, don't let him see that anything is wrong. Sherlock tried to pay attention to what Jake said, and hoped he reacted appropriately.

But then suddenly Jake was in front of him, grabbing him roughly. This was not good, something was wrong, but Sherlock couldn't quite figure it out. He retreated back into his mind, trying to make sense of the world around him.

Then he heard a pained noise.

_John! Jake, he hurt John._

_John, got to get free so I can help John!_

That helped Sherlock to intensify his efforts to break through his own confused mind. He used John's voice and screams to guide him out of the darkness. Finally, with a huge effort, he managed to fully surface and the sight in front of him made his blood run cold.

Jake was standing over John with a large knife. There was blood smeared all over his body, from what looked like mainly shallow cuts and stab wounds, but Sherlock knew that Jake would not stop there. He saw the gun tucked into his waistband. He was after the kill and was simply playing with his helpless prey.

He kept working on loosening his bonds while keeping a keen eye on Jake, prepared to revert back into his unmoving state the second Jake looked into his direction. As long as the criminal thought that Sherlock was incapacitated, he knew he had the element of surprise. Suddenly he felt the knot slip and the rope around his wrists went slack. He'd done it!

Wasting no time, Sherlock launched himself onto Jake, who was still taunting John with the knife, leaving behind a row of shallow cuts along John's arms.

He crashed into him with full force, pushing him off John and making the soldier stumble to keep his footing. The attack was so powerful that Jake's gun was thrown across the room, out of reach for both men. Jake recovered quickly and brought his knife up, crouching in a ready position, a slick smile forming on his lips.

Sherlock caught the look in his opponent's eyes and what he saw was pure madness. Jake was completely gone, enjoying the fight and would not hesitate to use lethal force if given the chance. He realised that he had only one shot at this. And while he was trained in the art of Baritsu, he knew that he was no match for the mad, but highly trained killer in front of him. So he used the one advantage he had, his mind. He hoped he could provoke Jake to lash out in an uncoordinated attack.

"Jake, Jake, Jake... Always so aggressive, but we aren't playing anymore, are we? You're unable to play a fair game. You know you can only win when you have me secure and restrained, but now? Fighting as an equal? Are you still confident that you will win?"

"You are no match for me, you pathetic little git." Jake replied through gritted teeth. If he was surprised by Sherlock's sudden freedom and lucidity, he managed not to show it. "I will rip you apart and then continue my little game with Johnny here."

He attacked, fast, but blinded by rage. Sherlock saw the moves coming and was prepared, holding his ground against his vicious opponent, able to block most of the brutal blows that Jake threw at him. But he was weakened and as he took a little step to steady himself he saw the glorious glint in Jakes eyes. He tried to evade the blow from Jake's right fist but realised his mistake immediately, as the criminal did not follow through with his move. Sherlock bent down instead, desperately trying to regain his stance, but suddenly found himself losing his balance, swaying to the left and then a fist connected with his cheek, sending him flying across the room.

He went down hard and stayed helplessly on the floor, his ears ringing and vision unfocused. He frantically tried to regain his focus, but his head felt too fuzzy. Concussed, he diagnosed himself. Frustrated at his unreliable transport, he fought to get his mind back online. He would not fall apart again, the last few hours still haunting him, and right now John needed him. Failure was not an option.

Jake let out a triumphant scream and turned his attention to John. Sherlock struggled to get his aching body under enough control to get up as he watched him cut through John's restraints, grab him by his hair and pull him into a standing position. Still trying to get up to help his friend, Sherlock felt a sudden pain in his side made him crumble back to the floor. He looked down to locate the source of the irritating sting and saw the bright red stain on his t-shirt, just below his ribcage. He put his hand over it, feeling for the source of the blood and winced as he realized that it was a deep stab wound to his left side. So that was why he lost his balance, Jake had stabbed him during their fight! Pressing his hand against the wound to stem the blood flow, he hissed in pain. Sherlock took several deep breaths to clear the rest of the fog in his mind and focussed on getting the pain back under control. He watched helplessly as Jake attacked John in blind anger.

If the situation weren't so serious, Sherlock would have appreciated the display of hand- to-hand combat skill from both men. The blows and blocks came lightening fast, a carefully composed flow of fluid motions that made it look like a perfectly choreographed dance. Despite John's obvious disadvantage with his injured knee, he stood his ground, blocking attacks with impressive counter strikes. In his madness, Jake had abandoned his defences and went into a full force, all out attack. And while this opened up opportunities for John to strike at his opponent, he could not cause enough damage to stop him.

Sherlock had managed to get himself back on his feet, using the toppled chair as support and was about to try and tackle Jake to come to John's aid. But before he could make even one step, Jake got a good hold on John's right arm, pulling down and forcing him use his right leg to support his entire body weight. He stumbled as the leg gave out under him and Jake used the sideways momentum to grab it and, lifting him clear off the ground, turned around his own axle and slammed him head first against the wall. John was taken by surprise and had no time to lift his arms or brace for the impact.

The cracking noise was sickening.

Time slowed down for Sherlock. He heard John hit the wall, _heard _his scull breaking and saw him slide down to the floor where he remained lying motionless, leaving behind a long red trail of blood against the wall. All in blurry slow motion and yet in nauseating high definition clarity.

The sight of the blood on the wall made his stomach revolt in ways he had never experienced before. The blood that was supposed to be inside John's body was now all splattered and smeared against the cold concrete surface. With a terribly final feeling he realised that John was gone. His John; murdered right in front of him.

* * *

**AN: To speak in Moffats wise words: "They wouldn't stop it there, would they?" **

**Well, I would and I am! *ducks and hides* **

**Stay tuned for the next chapter! **


	10. Chapter 10

The resolution of the cliffhanger... As always, beta'd by the amazing **MrsNoggin. **All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warning:** graphic violence, blood, character death

* * *

London, 14 October 2012

It was Sunday morning on a bright and sunny day that made one forget that it was autumn, and it had everyone in a horribly cheery mood. Sitting alone at his massive dining table, Mycroft felt insulted by the weather. Cheeriness was far from his mind. He had not heard anything from John since that last text, more than forty hours ago. The trackers in his phone and equipment were dead and there was no way of knowing where exactly he was or if he was still alive. Finding out that Col. Moran and Jake Moriarty were one and the same had been a shock and one that he did not take lightly. That was two out of two SRR officers that his employees had missed during their background checks. Needless to say, the team around Mycroft had quite a few new faces to it now.

When the communication with John went dark after that last message, Mycroft had alerted his Hungarian counterpart of the presence of two agents in the country, giving him John's last know location. Without definitive proof that the mission had failed, however, he hesitated to sanction any official intervention. An early interruption could destroy whatever plan John had. Still, he felt edgy and could not shake off the feeling that things had gone horribly wrong.

It was unusual for the doctor to not inform him of his plans, but as a former Special Forces soldier, he was trained to act on any opportunity, and it could be that John had his reasons for going dark unannounced. Mycroft detested being out of the loop, but this wasn't one of his Agents, and John had proven right from the beginning that he was not susceptible to Mycroft's usual intimidation. Leaning back, he sighted and cursed whoever deity would listen for the existence of the Moriarty brothers and the chaos they had brought into his well organised life.

Pushing all those gloomy thoughts aside he concentrated on the documents in front of him, the latest intelligence report about the situation in Mauretania. After all, world politics did not stop simply because it was Sunday.

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 14 October 2012

Sherlock was temporary paralysed by the recent turn of events. Time stood still as his eyes, opened wide in shock, focussed on the unmoving body of his friend. The rest of the room was just a blurry background as he tried to adjust to the incomprehensible. John was dead. _Dead_. The word played over and over through his mind, like a mantra, refusing to fade away. The waves of agony washing over him were brutal. And even though Jake was standing right next to him, he had never felt so utterly alone in his entire life.

Time accelerated again and he went into a raging fit and - ignoring the searing pain in his side and the weakness of his body - he tackled Jake, driven by adrenaline and pure rage.

It was not an even fight. The highly trained ex-Special Forces soldier did not stand a chance against the furious consulting detective. Sherlock was driven by a feral strength that belied his mangled body. His blows were precise and powerful. Jake stumbled under the sudden onslaught and took a second to adjust to his new opponent. In that short span, Sherlock had landed an impressive hit against Jake's head and followed the motion through with an elbow to his gut.

Jake grunted from the hits, but did not go down. Driven by the desperation of a man who had just lost the most precious thing in his life, Sherlock advanced again. He knew that he did not have the stamina for a long scuffle, so he focussed on ending things quickly. He managed to block Jake's kick with his own leg and was next to the soldier in one fluid, lightning fast move. Focussing all his strength into the blow, he curled up his fingers to make his hand more rigid, lifted his arm, and knife-handed Jake in the throat. The effect was instant and impressive. The soldier gasped and fell to the floor on all fours, trying to shake off the stun from the crippling blow.

Sherlock kicked him in the back, right in between his shoulder blades and watched the soldier collapse to the ground. Feeling the adrenaline leave his system, Sherlock dropped to the floor as well, panting hard, and ended up kneeling over Jake, one knee pressed into his back, to keep him from moving. Jake was completely still, either unconscious or death. The knifehand strike in itself was rarely lethal, but sometimes it could crush the trachea, leaving the victim to suffocate. Sherlock took a deep breath, fighting his exhaustion, and bend down, putting one hand around Jake's neck, checking for a pulse, hoping he would find none.

It was the opportunity that Jake had been waiting for. He pushed himself off the floor with both arms and threw his head backwards. Sherlock was hit hard on his nose and briefly lost his hold on Jake. The latter used that moment, turned his head and bit down on Sherlock's hand. Hard. He yelped in surprise and pain. Falling back, he pressed his unhurt hand against his bleeding nose and took a shocked look at his other hand; reproaching himself bitterly for making such a thoughtless and unwarranted mistake. There was a perfect, half crescent shaped, bleeding bite mark on it.

Jake used that short moment of distraction to twist around and swiftly grab Sherlock around the throat to pull him against his own chest. The arm tightened and Sherlock gasped for air, eyes wide in shock and fear. The arm tightened even further, slowly choking him. Jake's voice was husky from exhaustion and the blow against his throat, but he was still able to speak:

"Still so much fight in you, isn't there? I would have loved to break your spirit, but I shall be happy now to have broken your body. Just like Johnny over there."

Sherlock still struggled against Jake's iron hard hold, but it was no use. He was sure that this was it. He was going to die, and this time for real. The only consolation was that he would die next to John; they would be united in death. He welcomed that thought.

"Go ahead," he rasped with his last remaining strength, "Kill me, it won't bring your brother back."

Jake just growled and tightened his arm around Sherlock's throat. Just as his world turned to black he heard a deafening bang. It resonated through the small room like thunder, only louder and much closer. He felt the repercussion in his gut as the body behind him jerked violently. And then he was falling, Jake's arm relaxed around his throat and he found he could breathe again.

_'Strange, I never knew that dying was this loud, or this painful._'

He cracked open his left eye and took a quick look around. Lying next to him was Jake Moriarty, eyes wide open and with a shocked expression on his very dead face. Sherlock blinked, his concussed brain struggling to provide an explanation for the turn of events. John, still crumpled on the floor, but now there was something in his limp hand.

_'Dark... metal? ...The gun!'_his sluggish brain finally supplied. But John was dead. Dead people don't fire guns. And they certainly couldn't hit Jake square in the centre of his forehead while missing Sherlock's face by less than an inch. But that meant that...

"J-John?"

Sherlock anxiously crawled over to the motionless body of his friend. He looked terrible. His hair matted with blood from a large, gaping wound where his head had impacted the wall, the right half of his face covered in a shocking amount of blood from the earlier cut from Jake's knife. It stood in a stark contrast to the white of his skin. Sherlock hesitantly reached out with a trembling hand to feel for a pulse, scared that he might find none. The weak but regular throbbing under his fingers was the best thing Sherlock had felt in a long time.

Collapsing next to his friend he allowed himself a moment of relaxation; letting all the anxiety and stress of the last weeks ebb away. As the relief that John was alive soared through him, he realised that they were still in grave danger. Jake's men were outside and neither he nor John was in any shape to fight through an escape right now. Pushing his exhausted mind into gear he frantically thought of possible solutions. Eye's scanning the room, taking in any detail that might help them, his gaze finally settled on the fallen Jake. And then the solution was clear in his mind.

He shuffled over to Jake's very dead body and grabbed the keys and a mobile phone and slowly pushed himself up into a half standing, half crouching position. He could not stop a groan escaping from his lips as agony shot through his body from the puncture wound in his side. Walking was excruciatingly painful. Slowly, he made his way over to the door and shifted through the keys to identify the correct one for the lock. Finally he found it and locked the door from the inside, leaving the key in the door. And not a second too early as he heard the hurried footsteps of several of Jake's men rush down the corridor. Confident that bullets would not penetrate the thick steel door he made his way back to John, still lying unmoving next to the wall.

After confirming that John was still breathing, he allowed himself to relax slightly. The adrenaline from the fight was leaving his system and he collapsed next to his friend. Fishing the phone out of his pocket, he started typing a message. The keys were swimming before his eyes, but he was confident that he had punched in the right number and a somewhat coherent message. He hit send. His consciousness was slipping, and he was unsure if it was due to the blood loss or the concussion and found that he did not really care either way. All he could do now was sit down next to John and hold his precious friend in his arms. Surprisingly, John started to stir just as Sherlock gathered him into his arms.

"Sh...Shrlck?"

"John, s'ok, I got you. Rest"

"J..ake?"

"Dead. You got him. Straight in the head."

"Good." Pause. Sherlock though that John had lost consciousness again. But then he looked up, a bit more alert. "You're bleeding!"

"Hmm, was ... Too slow... Doesn't hurt ... That bad."

"Liar..." John tried to reach over to Sherlock, to put pressure on the bleeding wound but collapsed back into Sherlock's lap with a whimper of pain.

"Shhhh, 'm ok... help's coming." God, since when did talking hurt so much? His lungs felt like they were on fire and his brain was working so slowly, as if finding the right words was an overly difficult procedure. He felt the blackness invite him in and found that he did not have the strength to resist any longer.

John felt Sherlock's hand go limp. If it all was to end here and now, at least he knew that he was close to Sherlock. His only regret was that he had failed to save his friend. He grabbed Sherlock's hand with his own and gave it a gentle squeeze. Satisfied to feel the faint thumping of Sherlock's pulse against his fingers he let himself slide into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness.

* * *

**AN: So, Jake is finally gone. Don't think anyone will miss him, or will you? **

**Reviews are every author's drug and we always want MORE. So help me out here?**


	11. Chapter 11

Thanks for all the love in form of reviews, favs and follows! You guys rock!

Beta'd by **MrsNoggin. **All remaining mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: umm, none? Bit of blood and gore, but nothing too bad.

* * *

London, 14 October 2012

Still completely immersed in his reports, he had moved on to Nigeria in the meanwhile, Mycroft ignored the lunch that his housekeeper had brought him. Usually he would never skip meals, but the uneasy feeling in his stomach had intensified and now he felt slightly queasy.

The subtle vibration of his phone brought him out of his musings. He opened the incoming text, noticing the unknown number, but fully expecting it to be the much anticipated status update from John.

- Help trac phine m dead jonh hurt sH

Mycroft sprang into action. No matter the circumstances, Sherlock's texts were always properly spelled and punctuated. The implications of receiving a message like this were clear in his mind, and he did not like them. Unbidden pictures of twisted limbs and gunshot wounds danced before his eyes, but he pushed them aside with determination. It was his brother's life that was on the line, he needed to focus. He started the tracking software on his computer and entered the phone number. As soon as the beacon zoomed in to the greater Budapest area, very near to where John last known location was, he dialled the number of János Vasarely, head of the Hungarian secret service.

'_Hold on Sherlock, help is on the way, don't you dare give up now_,' he thought to himself while the line was established.

"János, this is Mycroft Holmes. Mobilise your men as discussed, I am relaying you the exact location now. And be warned, at least one of the adversaries is Special Forces trained."

After a quick confirmation, he hung up the phone and put his head in his hands, releasing a long breath and praying that Sherlock and John would be all right. Weeks of waiting and he finally had the confirmation that his little brother was alive, and yet anxiety twisted his stomach. He called Anthea to ready a jet to get him to Budapest immediately. For once he did not mind the leg work.

* * *

Hungary, village near Budapest, 14 October 2012

Without their leader, most of the remaining guards surrendered with minimal resistance. The team of the Hungarian Secret Service had little trouble overpowering the remaining men on the compound. They were, however, not prepared for the sight that greeted them when they burst through the locked door in the basement of the house. János Vasarely, seasoned agent in the MKIH* was one of the first to enter the small room after his team had secured the building. He had seen a lot of crime scenes during his active years, but the picture he was facing currently would be etched into his mind for a long time.

Three bodies. One obviously dead; the bullet hole on his forehead leaving little room for interpretation. The other two seemed like one mass of entangled limbs and blood. There had clearly been a vicious fight, the blood splatter on the walls, floor and the clothes of the three men being more than sufficient proof. The sheer amount of red liquid was shocking and he feared that they were too late. He stepped closer to the two bodies huddled together and pressed his fingers against the dark haired man's neck.

János almost jumped in surprise when he felt the faint, irregular pulse. He quickly checked the blonde man, relieved to find him alive as well. Looking at the head wound he could not figure out how he was still breathing, but he knew time was of the essence.

"Medic! We have two injured men in here. HURRY!"

If these were indeed the two agents from Mr. Holmes, then he needed them to stay alive or he would never live down the wrath that the British Government would unleash on him. The medical team stormed into the room and took over, barking short commands as they assessed the condition of their two patients. János addressed the medic in charge: "I need these two men alive, do you understand me? Use any resource deemed necessary, but keep them _alive_."

The medic just gave him a frantic nod, his hands still assessing the blonde man's many wounds.

János sighted and left the room. There was nothing more he could do here, time to make that call to Mycroft Holmes; something he did not look forward to.

"Holmes."

"Sir, this is János. We have found and secured the house. One casualty, but he was already dead when we arrived. Besides the guards we recovered two other men, both unconscious and in bad shape." He heard a sharp intake of breath on the other side of the line.

"Describe them to me."

"One is short, blond hair, early forties, the other one is younger, tall, skinny, mess of dark curls." János could almost feel the relief of the older man through the phone line.

"Those are the two men I was looking for. Agents of mine, they are to be treated as such. You mentioned they are injured?"

"Yes, they are prepared for transport to the hospital as we speak. I don't have any details, but it doesn't look good. If you want to debrief them, I suggest you get here as quick as you can. I don't know if they'll live for much longer."

"Text me the details of the hospital. I will be there as soon as I can." The line went dead. Although he could not see Mycroft Holmes, János could have sworn that he sounded worried.

It scared him; in all the years he knew the British Government Official he had never shown any emotional reaction or attachment to his agents. And there had been some pretty gruesome incidents over the years, incidents that required hard decisions, and Mycroft had never faltered in his resolve. Who were these two agents that warranted such a reaction?

* * *

Budapest, 14 October 2012

Mycroft arrived in Budapest less than three hours later, after a short flight in a comfortable private jet. After he had hung up the phone to end his call with János earlier that day, he had needed a minute to take in the new turn of events. His hands folded under his chin, he'd released a deep breath that he wasn't even aware he'd held in. Sherlock and John were alive. So far so good.

János had picked him up from the small airfield and briefed him about the situation and evidence his team had found at the house. There were video files recovered, files that Mycroft knew he had to watch at least once to understand what had been done to his younger sibling, but he was not looking forward to that.

János decided he needed some information of his own. "Mr. Holmes, please don't mind my asking, but I was wondering who these agents are? They seem to be very important to you. Usually you keep me informed about any serious operations in my country, yet, I only heard about this two days ago."

Mycroft seemed to contemplate not answering the question, but ultimately decided that his Hungarian colleague deserved at least some part of the truth for his help.

"Their names are none of your concern. But yes, they, or rather their mission was a very important one, and until I know if it was completely successful I would rather not go into details."

If János had been expecting more than that, he did not show it. Mycroft knew that he owed the man an explanation; failure to provide it would probably cool down the relations between their departments drastically. But right now the unknown fate of his brother and John took priority over possible diplomatic hiccups. For once, family came first. János seemed to catch his edgy tone, as he concentrated on driving and made no further comments.

When they reached the hospital they were shown into a waiting area. Mycroft's inherent authority coupled with János' badge meant that they were joined by a doctor within minutes.

"My name is Dr. Slavic, I am the head of the emergency care unit. I understand that you are enquiring about the two men that were brought in a short while ago? We have yet to establish their identity, maybe you can help us there…?"

Not in the mood for arduous explanations, Mycroft decided to forgo pleasantries and got straight to the point: "Will they survive?"

The doctor had enough sense to him to give in to Mycroft's direct approach. "The younger of the two will recover in time, we had to re-inflate his left lung and he has a deep stab wound to his side which required stitches. He has extensive bruising and abrasions all over his body, coupled with a concussion. He is very weak, suffering from malnutrition and dehydration, but with rest and good medical care he will make a full recovery. He was unconscious when he arrived here and has yet to regain consciousness, which, given his weakened state, is not surprising."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a short moment as he felt a huge weight off his shoulders. Sherlock was going to be alright. "And the other?"

"He is in surgery right now. Among other injuries, he has a massive head trauma which caused cerebral contusion. We have to reduce the pressure on his brain caused by the swelling to avoid further damage. The procedure is not without risks and even if it goes well, there is always a chance of permanent brain damage with this type of injury. We will have to monitor him very closely. In addition to the head injury he has suffered severe trauma to his right knee, with tendons and ligaments cut and torn. If he survives the head injury, then he will require extensive restorative surgery on his knee and even with that, full function of the joint may not be restored. "

And the tension was back. How was he supposed to explain to Sherlock that John might not survive, and even if he did, he was likely to have some brain damage and might never walk again? He knew that he had to face the wrath of his brother for sending John after him, he had just hoped that John would be there to help him defend this decision. Now, it looked like he had to face his dear brother without backup.

"How soon can they be transported to England? They possess vital information and I would rather not have them talk about that here."

"I don't think you understand the severity of the injury. Any jolts or movement could kill him. So at least a week before he can get on a plane."

"That won't do. Get him ready to be transported tomorrow. Whatever you need to make it happen, you have it."

"But- "

"Make it happen, Doctor!" Mycroft dismissed the poor man.

He knew he was stretching his luck, but he needed both of them back in London where he could control the medical personal. John's recovery would be lengthy and he knew his brother. He would not leave John's side, but he would also unleash all of his frustration and boredom on the hospital staff. The situation needed to be contained, the sooner the better. He ignored János' piercing look.

Out of the corner of his eyes he saw a nurse tentatively approaching. He turned and gave her a fake smile.

"Gentlemen, one of the patients is regaining consciousness."

"Thank you nurse, take me to him, please." Mycroft motioned to János to follow him.

When Mycroft entered the private room he surveyed the scene in one quick glance. Two nurses were tending to a multitude of drips and monitors while Doctor Slavic was frowning at the file in his hands. Sherlock was lying in the bed, showing signs of increased activity, but not fully awake yet. If Mycroft was shaken at all by the appearance of his brother, it did not show on his face.

"He should not be waking up so soon, the sedative we gave him is supposed to knock him out for at least another couple of hours." He noted, slightly puzzled.

Mycroft was not surprised. "His tolerance for painkillers and narcotics is very high. He has a history of drug abuse. Cocaine and Morphine. I recommend you adjust his medication accordingly."

Doctor Slavic turned around sharply and seemed to consider speaking up. Who was this man to give him lectures on how to treat his own patients? But one glance at Mycroft's face made him reconsider and close his mouth.

"I will see to it immediately." He said and hurried out of the room. Maybe the early transfer wasn't such a bad idea after all.

"János, can you get the nurses out of here for a moment? I need some privacy."

"Of course." He spoke some quick words in his native language and the two nurses finished with whatever they were doing and left the room. "I'll be waiting outside if you need me."

Mycroft did not acknowledge János' last words, his gaze fixated on his little brother. Though he knew that the injuries were not life-threatening, it was still painful to see Sherlock in such a miserable state. He stepped closer to the bed and gently took Sherlock's hand into his own. Two pale grey eyes opened upon the contact and blinked, trying to get the world back into focus.

"Sherlock, it's me. You are safe now."

"J-n…" Sherlock struggled to sit up.

Mycroft put his hand on his brother's chest and gently held him back, "John is safe as well. He is still in surgery."

Sherlock relaxed back into the pillows. His eyes drifting close again.

"Rest, brother. I will be here when you wake up."

* * *

* MKIH - Magyar Köztársaság Információs Hivatala, Hungarian secret service

**AN: **Mycroft to the rescue... Finally some comfort after all the hurt...


	12. Chapter 12

Sorry for the delay in posting, the next few chapters will most likely take a bit longer. This story was complete before I posted the first chapter, but during the editing process it got expanded quite a bit and now my original ending needs some serious make over to fit the rest of the story. Sincere Apologies!

Thanks and credit as always to my beta **MrsNoggin**.

**Warning:** mention of torture and severe injury

* * *

Budapest, 14 October 2012

János watched Mycroft through a small window in the door. He respected his colleague's wish for privacy, but the spy in him needed more information. So he stayed and observed, astonished at the level of familiarity that surrounded the two men in the room. When he saw the injured man fall back asleep, he softly knocked on the door and waited for Mycroft to wave him in. Again, he was surprised to see the softness of his features, before the cool and neutral mask slid back down. Deciding to take the risk, János spoke up on his suspicion, conscious to keep his voice low.

"He's your brother, isn't he?"

That earned him a surprised glance from Mycroft. The usual sharp and scrutinizing look was back on his face. János cringed apologetically.

"I just noticed the resemblance. And you are more worried than I have ever seen you. Your secret is safe with me, don't worry. Who is the other one?"

For a second János though he had gone too far. He could have sworn the temperature in the room dropped several degrees and the silence from the British Official was deafening. He was about to crumble under the hostile and icy stare, when, to János' utter astonishment, Mycroft gave him a short nod and answered the question.

"His name is John Watson. He is my brother's flatmate and his best friend. Sherlock went missing about four weeks ago. I sent John after him, and by the looks of it, I sent him to his doom."

Mycroft sat down heavily, the weight of the world seemingly on his shoulders. János felt sorry for the older man. Losing agents was bad enough; he could not imagine what it must feel like to lose friends or family. This was exactly why it was so important to keep emotions out of their daily business, once you start feeling attached to those serving under you, all objectivity goes out the window. He excused himself and left the other man to his silent vigil.

János left the clinic shortly after, leaving several of his men behind as protection for Mycroft and his agents. Mycroft settled himself next to his brother's bed into a chair and watched over his younger sibling's sleep. Something he had not done in a long time.

* * *

Budapest, 15 October 2012

Evening had come and gone and it was now the early hours of Monday morning. Refusing to leave his brothers side, Mycroft typed away on his mobile with growing frustration. He hated to text, but he did not want to wake up his brother. God knew, Sherlock deserved the rest!

Doctor Slavic had given him an update about John shortly after Sherlock had fallen asleep. He was out of surgery and stable for the moment, but his condition remained critical. They had admitted him to the intensive care unit and he was being monitored by a team of specialists. Mycroft had contacted his own doctors in London, and they were currently preparing to take over John and Sherlock's care as soon as possible, closely coordinating with their Hungarian colleagues. Organising the transport was Mycroft's top priority and the cause for his furious typing. He wished Anthea were here with him, she would gladly take over! On the other hand, he needed her in London to keep tabs on other current business.

During a short break in his typing, he noticed that Sherlock had grown more and more restless in his sleep. Recognising the early signs of nightmares, Mycroft tried to wake his brother, but was unsuccessful. Instead, Sherlock started to mutter in his dreams and his movements grew more agitated.

Mycroft cursed. This was not the first time he witnessed his younger brother having nightmares. This needed to be handled carefully. A disoriented and confused Sherlock was a formidable fighter, as several nurses and doctors had had the unfortunate opportunity to experience in the past. Mycroft knew that he needed to let Sherlock find his bearings on his own terms.

* * *

In his sleep, Sherlock's mind flipped through his most recent memories like a picture book, snapshots of pain and humiliation that somehow resisted deletion. He tried to stop the agonising slide show, but he found himself trapped in his own brilliant mind.

_They dragged in a large wooden box and forced him to lay down on it on his belly. The rough edges of the wood cut into his chest and stomach as they stretched out his arms and legs and fixed them to metal rings in the floor. The ropes binding his wrists and ankles were tight and gave him very little wiggling room. He realised that he would not be able to support any of his weight with his limbs and that this position was extremely uncomfortable, even after being in it for just a few minutes. Retreating into his mind palace, he tried to shut out the growing pain in his shoulders, hips and knees. They left him alone like this for several agonising hours. When they came back, he was harshly pushed off the box his arms and legs remained bound together, but were freed from the holding rings in the floor. He curled up helplessly, his muscles and joint barely obeying his commands. They threw a bottle of water in his general direction and left._

_This time it was three of his minders walking inside. As always, they did not talk as they grabbed him roughly and pushed him into a kneeling position. Sherlock fought with all his strength, but the three were more than a match for him and, with a few targeted blows against his face and stomach, he was subdued. Two held him tight while the third attached handcuffs around his wrists, and then to his ankles. Only when he tried to move and immediately lost his balance did he realise that his right hand was cuffed to his left leg and vice versa. He collapsed against the man next to him who pushed him back upright. The moment that Sherlock was able to hold his weight upright the three left and closed the door, leaving him alone and helpless in the dark. He experimentally tugged on his restrains, but movement was almost impossible without losing balance, and he was not too keen on ending up lying on his side._

_His shoulders where still aching from his prolonged stay on the box and this new forced posture did nothing to ease the pain. Sherlock tried to gauge how long he had been here, but it was impossible to keep track of time without a watch, or daylight, or anything resembling a schedule. They gave him water and food in irregular intervals, sometimes he was parched and sometimes he still had some water and food remaining._

_The scenes started to meld together in his mind, more torture, more pain. He desperately tried to escape but there was no way out. Then suddenly, John was there. A beacon of light in the darkness. But things were not right. Jake was there too and they were fighting and..._

"John! NO... " Sherlock woke up with a shout. Completely disoriented, he struggled against the strong arms that held him firmly in place. He grew even more desperate as he realised that he was too weak to fight them off. "No, leave him ... Go away..."

"Sherlock! Calm down." That voice, firm and yet soothing. He knew that voice. Not John, but also friendly, most of the time... Mycroft! Where did he come from? He eased his struggle against the arms that held him down, but did not relax completely; nor did he open his eyes. He had yet to regain his bearings.

"Think, brother. Deduce it. It's all there." Mycroft's voice encouraged him.

He was lying on a soft surface, but the sheets felt rough against his skin. Low thread count. A warm cover. That was new, but it felt wrong. Not home. Not at Mycroft's, but also not in the basement any more. Moving up along his body he felt a faint ache in his left side, and a not-so-faint headache. Courtesy of his fight with Jake, no doubt. Pictures of the fight sprang to mind and he started to tense up again.

'_No, Jake is dead. It is over.'_ He forced his mind back into reality and continued his deductions on his surroundings. Something tingled on his chest and in his nose. There was resistance and pain in his hand when he moved it. He took a deep breath and was assaulted by the smell of antiseptics and bleach. A very specific mix that he could easily identify, given his extensive study of all kind of chemicals. And Mycroft was here. Breathing out deeply, he relaxed into the soft cushions. He knew exactly where he was now, only how he got here was still a bit fuzzy.

"Mycroft? How did I end up in a hospital in Budapest?" His voice sounded a bit off, and his throat hurt when he spoke. Furrowing his eyebrows, he turned his head and opened his eyes. As expected, his brother sat next to him in a white hospital chair. "And where's John?" He rasped as more memories of the past few hours washed over him.

"John is safe. They have him in a separate room so you aren't disturbed." Sherlock noticed the miniscule hesitation. Not exactly a lie, but also not the whole truth. He made a mental note to come back to this later. "Nice touch with Budapest. The bleach?" Mycroft changed the subject purposefully. Interesting. Sherlock added it to his growing list of things that were not quite right.

"Obviously. Only used in former Soviet countries, but the antiseptic is a brand only available in EU countries, so that narrows it down. I knew I was held in Hungary, and with our injuries you would transfer us to the largest and best hospital available, so Budapest."

"I am glad to hear that you did not hit your head too hard!"

Sherlock took some time to observe his new environment, taking stock of all the medical equipment that surrounded his bed. Other than the annoying oxygen prongs on his face and the multiple IV ports in both his hands he was content to find no indication for a serious injury that required prolonged medical treatment. Satisfied for the moment, he turned back to his brother.

"You got us out?"

"After receiving your rather alarming message, yes. Appalling spelling by the way."

"Don't try and be humorous, Mycroft, there is no need to lighten the mood, I'm fine."

That earned him a sigh and a dramatic eye roll from Mycroft. Sherlock was pleased.

"You have been asleep for almost twelve hours in case you want to know. You have a mild concussion, a deep stab wound just below your rib cage that punctured a lung and you've lost a significant amount of blood. You are also dehydrated and malnourished, on a saline drip, IV antibiotics and have received two protein shakes through a nasal probe. This would be why your throat feels so rough." Mycroft's voice sounded oddly shaky.

The opportunity was too good to be passed up. "Is that sentiment I hear?"

"Oh for god's sake, Sherlock, you almost died in that basement! After having been missing for over a month! When I sent John after you, I didn't know if he would find you dead or alive."

Sherlock did not flinch at his brother's sharp tone and decided to ignore the worry that laced his brother's words. He was annoyed that Mycroft had meddled in his affairs – again! – and that John had been hurt in the progress. He also needed answers and if he could irritate Mycroft in the progress, even better.

"Why John? You could have sent anyone, why use John? I told you explicitly to keep him safe!"

Mycroft broke eye contact and started to pace the room, the umbrella accentuating every single step.

"I didn't send him, he figured out that you were alive on his own. I couldn't have stopped him even if I wanted to!"

Now it was Sherlock's turn for a dramatic eye roll. "Keep your manipulations for lesser people Mycroft, we both know that you fed John the breadcrumbs that led to his discovery. I covered my traces well after my tragic demise; John would never have been able to figure it out on his own. Only _you_ could find the clues and feed them to him. So, coming back to my original question, why?"

Sherlock watched with satisfaction as his brother whirled around at the unexpected accusation.

"You are underestimating your friend, John _did _figure out most of it on his own. He barely needed my help. You taught him well." Mycroft was actually praising John. That alone was enough to alert Sherlock instantly. "And you know why. He was the only one I could trust with your life. The only person in the world who cares enough about you to risk his own life."

Sherlock knew that his brother was right, but he was upset that John had been deliberately placed in danger. Especially as the whole point of his mission was to keep his friends safe! So he kept lashing out, ignoring the alarm bells in his mind, his voice intentionally hurtful.

"You didn't know about his SRR involvement, did you? Or that he and Jake Moriarty had history together."

"These facts have unfortunately been overlooked during the routine checks. Trust me, it will not happen again."

The cool mask of Mycroft finally brought Sherlock to boil over. "John almost died because of your mistake! You and your pathetic minions missed crucial information, which could have cost both of our lives! You had only one job to do, Mycroft, and even that one you messed up. That is _exactly_ why I had to go solo to destroy Moriarty's empire; you and your so called intelligence specialists are not to be trusted! Now, stop your games and tell me where John is, I want to see him."

Seemingly unfazed by his brother's outburst, Mycroft replied calmly. "You can't see him right now. He's in intensive care. "

"Mycroft?" There was an odd expression on his Mycroft's face and Sherlock did not like it. He was hiding something. The alarm in his head was now at maximum level, trying to alert him to something important, something he had missed. "What are you not telling me? How bad is it?"

Instead of an answer, Mycroft looked down and broke eye contact with Sherlock. That gesture, more than any words, scared him deeply. Infuriating as his brother might be, he was no coward. If he hesitated to tell him, then that meant bad news and that alone sent shivers down his spine. Finally he spoke.

"Bad, Sherlock. It's very, very bad."

Mycroft told him the diagnosis, in all its excruciating details. His head was spinning wildly as he calculated the odds of John's survival, and saw them shrinking with each new detail that Mycroft revealed. Although his memories of the final moments of their fight with Jake were sketchy, he did remember the horrific head injury. But they had been rescued! They had survived everything that Jake threw at them; surely John would not leave him now? Not now that they were finally safe? He looked up at his brother who was still avoiding eye contact and felt his anger take over.

"Get out, Mycroft!" He snarled.

"Sherlock..." His brother flinched under his words.

"OUT! This is your fault! John could be sitting safely at home, but you had to involve him in this. If he dies, his blood is on your hands. Now. Leave. Me. Alone!

* * *

**AN: There is quite a bit of medical stuff in the chapters to come. Unfortunately, my knowledge of this topic is sketchy and internet research gets you only so far... So if there are any readers with medical knowledge that are willing to help me get the facts straight, feel free to PM me!**


	13. Chapter 13

You can thank **MrsNoggin** and her super fast beta for the early posting of this chapter! If you haven't done so, check out her works, they are awesome!

Many thanks to all my reviewers, no matter if regulars, guests or talking in foreign languages ;-) Every little bit of feedback is much loved!

**Warnings**: Bits of bad language as Lestrade makes an entrance...

* * *

Budapest, 15 October 2012

Sherlock watched with contempt as his brother left the room. This time Mycroft had gone too far. And though he really needed to see John, he would not beg his brother for any more help. There were other ways after all...

Slipping on his most pitiful look, he pressed the little button that would send in a nurse. He was in no form to fight his brother, but bullying a nurse into letting him see John was easy. Spinning a sad tale that was not too far from the actual truth, he was certain that would not leave the nurse unmoved. And he was right. Adding a few tears for effect and he knew he had won. For a moment it seemed as if the young girl was about to dissolve into tears herself, but then she gave in and escorted him to the ICU where she handed him over to another nurse on duty, still sniffling a little.

The ICU nurse told him sternly that he could stay no longer than five minutes. Sherlock ignored her. He would see about that later. Now all his attention was focussed on John, lying in the bed before him. Barely recognisable with all the bandages and wires, looking completely lost among the multitude of instruments that surrounded the bed. But he was alive. And that was all that counted, because anything else was just not an option.

Sherlock settled himself in a chair next to John's bed and waited. Waited for John to wake up, waited for any sign of improvement in the stats on the monitors, waited for the nurse that would be brave enough to try and pry him away from his friend. There was so much information that required filing in his mind palace, but a persistent headache was stopping him from doing it. The final moments in the basement were still fuzzy in his mind, preventing him from recalling the details and it annoyed him. His mind had been frustratingly unreliable lately.

The nurses and doctors eventually gave up trying to get him back into his own room. They silently worked around him, sometimes giving him an encouraging smile, but mostly just doing their job. Sherlock ignored them. He reluctantly let go of John during the transport back to London, but once John was settled into their new room he was back to his silent vigil. All coercion and pleading from the nurses and doctors could not get him to move to his own bed, even if it was right next to John's. He stubbornly sat in the chair, waiting for his friend to return back to him.

When his memory fully returned a few hours later, it hit him like a freight train. The vivid pictures of John drenched in his own blood, crumbled motionless in a corner assaulted his mind and left him gasping for air. It hurt. Why did it hurt so much?

* * *

London, 16 October 2012

Mycroft looked up from his paper when he saw DI Lestrade storm through the doors of the ICU wing in the high class private clinic. Sherlock and John had been transferred here last night and were currently sharing the only occupied room on this level. The entire floor was locked down by Government Agents, but they had instructions to let Lestrade through. His name was on top of a very short list of approved personnel. Mycroft knew that with the transfer of Sherlock and John back to London, it was only a matter of time until the Inspector would find out. He was, after all, a good and loyal friend to John and had been to his brother before his 'death'. And as the latter still refused to see him, he decided it was time for reinforcements.

"Mycroft Holmes!" Lestrade groaned exasperatedly, "I should have known that you were involved in this. Where is John, how is he and what the hell happened? Last thing I heard he went to Italy for a vacation!"

"Good morning, Detective Inspector. I have been expecting you."

"Spare me the pleasantries, Holmes, and get to the point."

"As you wish." He put the paper aside and stood, every inch of him reflecting the high-ranking Government official, "John volunteered to retrieve something for me, something of tremendous importance to all of us, and he convinced me that he was the only person that could achieve this. At the time, it did seem like an ideal solution to my problem. He succeeded in his mission but, unfortunately, was injured in the process."

Lestrade interrupted impatiently, "You are not making any sense. I get a call at six am to get to the hospital ASAP because a John Watson has been admitted. Now, they wouldn't call me for a cut finger or anything like that, especially as you are here and seemingly in charge. So I ask you again: what happened? What could have been so important to send John, a bloody civilian for goodness sake, on one of your little missions? He was barely starting to recover from what Sherlock did to him with his suicide. I am sorry, but you're gonna have to do better than that."

"You were called because I thought you would want to be here. John has received critical injuries and it is not certain he will survive."

Lestrade gave a strangled gasp and rubbed a hand over his face, shock and fear contorting his normally composed face.

"I supposed you would want to be here to say goodbye. John is in there, Greg," he pointed to the room behind him, "And so is the item that he has retrieved. The rest will become clear once you step into that room. Goodbye, Detective Inspector."

With a swirl of his umbrella, Mycroft turned around and left a stunned Lestrade standing alone in the hallway. It was high time for him to get back to his duties. And after all the distractions of the last two days he looked forward to a normal day in the office. Or as normal as any day for Mycroft Holmes would ever be.

* * *

Lestrade stood frozen to the spot, staring wide eyed after the disappearing government official. The vague information that Mycroft had provided him with had done nothing to calm him down. He cursed the Holmes family and their inability to communicate at a normal level. Talking to them always left him with more questions than answers. And John was seriously injured, might even die.

Christ, he had just lost Sherlock, he couldn't lose John as well so soon. Composing himself, he took a deep breath and opened the door, worried of what he might find behind it. But even so, nothing could have prepared the DI for what he saw in the small hospital room. There were two beds, but his gaze immediately focused on the one closer to the door, the one that was occupied by his friend.

John looked impossibly frail and small in the large bed, surrounded by a multitude of monitors, machines and wires. His head was almost completely covered in bandages and his right leg was in a brace, lying slightly elevated. The little pieces of his skin that were visible were covered in angry bruises and bright red lacerations. If not for the constant beeping of the heart monitor, Lestrade would have thought him dead.

Even more impossible was the hunched figure sitting in a chair next to his bed, holding on tightly to John's hand.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Lestrade stuttered in utter disbelief. "How…? What…? I don't understand…"

Sherlock slowly lifted his head and turned to face Lestrade. In all his years on the force, Lestrade had seen many victims, dead and alive, but he had never seen a living person looking as dead as Sherlock looked right then. His features were sunken, he was impossibly thin, and the dark bruises on his face were in a stark contrast to the white of his skin. But most disturbing were the eyes; they were, for the lack of a better word, dead. Bleak and unfocused.

"Lestrade." The voice still held the familiar baritone, but it lacked the usual energy.

"Good God, Sherlock, is that really you? Blimey… and John… what the hell happened?" Lestrade overcame his shock pretty quickly, his police instincts kicking in, and he realizing that now was not the time for getting angry at Sherlock for the deception. He looked miserable enough. Lestrade grabbed a second chair and pulled it up next to Sherlock's. Sitting down, he saw the bandages covering the young detectives chest lurk out from under the dressing gown. "Shouldn't you be in bed?" He asked sympathetically.

" 'm fine." His gaze was fixed on John. "He's dying. I jumped off a roof top to save his life, and the idiot comes after me and gets himself killed. He was supposed to be safe. Happy. Not this. Never this."

Caring. Ok, that was new for Sherlock. The completely out-of-character behaviour made Lestrade's skin tingle. What exactly had happened to rattle the man this much? Lestrade tried to get the story together from the fragments he had so far.

"Ok, let me have a go at this. You faked your death to protect John?" A slow nod. "John somehow found out and approached Mycroft for help. Your brother knew that you were alive?" Another nod. "Something went wrong, Mycroft lost touch with you, and he decided that John could find you."

"He was supposed to look after John. Keep him safe. Not use him." Sherlock replied spiteful.

"Ok, John found you, but you were in a bad spot. You had to fight your way out and John got hit on the head a bit too hard?"

"Moriarty." The name alone was enough to send shivers down Lestrade's spine.

"No, Sherlock, Jim Moriarty is dead. I saw his body in the morgue, it was definitely him."

"You also saw my body and that was most definitely not me!" Lestrade actually smirked at Sherlock's biting remark. So the arrogant detective was still in there somewhere.

"I am talking about Jacob Moriarty, the elder brother. I went after him, but he was sneaky. Got to me first. When John found me - "

"Sherlock? What happened when John found you?" Lestrade probed gently.

Sherlock shuck his head in agony, the memory still too raw and horrific in his mind. "Jake threw him into a wall, head first. I- I heard his skull break, he wasn't moving, he….he looked so...dead." The last word was just a broken murmur.

Greg closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing to keep the nausea in check.

"Jesus…"

"Somehow, John was still conscious and shot the bastard. Last thing he did, saving me. Again. How is it he always saves me, yet I can never keep him safe?" Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper for the last few words, but Lestrade heard them. They came out so utterly broken that he was sure they would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"I'm so sorry." Lestrade pulled one arm around the shaking frame of his friend and was once again harshly reminded of just how much weight Sherlock had lost. He could feel every bone as Sherlock stiffened upon the contact. He ignored the resistance and slowly pulled the younger man to his feet, untangling his hand from John's and guided him over to his own bed.

"Sleep, Sherlock. I'll sit with John. I promise I will wake you when there's any change." It was a testament to his own exhaustion that Sherlock did not even try to resist. He simply curled up on the bed, pulled the blanket over his head and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Lestrade watched the sleeping form for a moment before turning back to sit next to John. He burrowed his head in his hands. This was bad. He still didn't know how severe John's injuries were, but a broken skull did not sound good. And gauging from both Mycroft's and Sherlock's comments, the doctors were not overly optimistic of the outcome either.

Shit. What was he supposed to do now? Sherlock was a mess, traumatized by his friend's injury and who knew what else. Capture and torture sprang to Lestrade's mind, but he really did not want to go there. Right now, he could not deal with the details. When he woke up this morning, he believed Sherlock to be dead and John to be on the mend, now he was dealing with a miraculously alive detective and an unconscious, barely living doctor and it wasn't even eight am yet…

* * *

Sometime later there was a knock on the door and a young nurse walked in.

"Um, hi, you must be DI Lestrade. My name is Sita." Her gaze flickered over to the sleeping Sherlock. "How did you get him to lie down? I have been trying all night, but he refused to leave his friend's side."

Lestrade shrugged. "Exhaustion finally kicked in, I guess."

"Well, I'm glad he is resting. At least now we can reconnect his IV and give him some fluids and antibiotics." Lestrade only then noticed that Sherlock's bed had his own impressive collection of IV lines and monitors. It looked like the younger man had ripped them all out earlier to be able to sit next to John.

Once she finished with Sherlock, Sita walked over to John and checked his numerous IV lines as well. Satisfied, she turned back to Lestrade.

"I'll send the Doctor in. He wants to talk to you about the treatment for John."

"Hmm, what? Why me?"

"Oh, I thought you knew. You are John's medical proxy, aren't you?"

"Um, yeah, I forgot about that." God, that had been ages ago. John had approached him about six months after moving in with Sherlock and asked if he would be his emergency contact and medical proxy. Explaining that he needed a sane and responsible person for that job and neither his sister nor Sherlock fit the bill. He had agreed, never imagining that he would be called into duty one day.

Nurse Sita gave him a sympathetic smile and left quietly.

When the door opened again a tall, grey haired man entered. He had an air of authority, but contrary to Mycroft Holmes, the authority came with kindness. He smiled at Lestrade and introduced himself.

"My name is Dr. James Cavanaugh; I have been the primary physician for the Holmes family since Sherlock was a little boy. Both brothers have been under my care numerous times."

"I understand. But this seems to be a fairly small hospital; do you have the necessary facilities to treat John's injuries?"

"This clinic caters to the more, shall we say 'private' government employees, who require special medical care. It is small, but we are one the best equipped hospitals in the country. And you don't have to worry about any of the nurses and doctors here; they are the best of the best, and very discreet."

Lestrade felt as if he had stepped into a parallel universe where terms like NHS, waiting lists and bed shortage were of no importance.

"You don't have to worry, Detective Inspector, John will receive the best possible care here." And then Dr. Cavanaugh continued on to explain the extent of John's injuries, the planned treatments and potential dangers.

Lestrade's head spun with all the information. Even though Dr Cavanaugh was trying to use layman terms wherever he could and was very good at explaining, the sheer magnitude of John's head injury was hard to grasp.

"We will wake him up in a few days and will perform a series of neurological tests with him. After that we will know more about the damage. I understand that this is a lot to take in. But John here is a fighter. He should have died on the spot when his skull was smashed. You work homicides, I am sure you have seen enough victims that have died from a single blow to the head."

Lestrade just nodded.

"Then you understand when I say that it is a miracle that John is still with us. But he is fighting and he is healing. It's been more than thirty-six hours since the injury and he is still alive. If he makes it through the day then his chance of recovery increases significantly. Tell him to hold on, to keep fighting. I am sure he can hear you."

"Thank you Doctor. I appreciate your honesty. I will stay with John if you don't mind. And – is there a cafeteria where I could get a coffee?"

Dr Cavanaugh smiled. "Of course. I'll send a nurse with breakfast immediately. If you need anything at all, don't hesitate to ask any of the nurses."

Lestrade watched the doctor leave and turned back to look at John. Parallel universe indeed. He smirked at the thought at being served breakfast in a hospital. He just hoped their coffee was better than the crap they served in NHS facilities…

He took a seat in Sherlock's vacated chair and prepared for a long day. He would need to call in and take leave for a few days, but that could wait. All he could do now was to be here for his friends and to pray that they would both make it out of this. He was painfully aware that even if John lived, both of them might never be the same again.


	14. Chapter 14

This Chapter just did not want to be written! And once it was written is was horrible. Thanks to **MrsNoggin,** my dear conductor of light, it is now much improved and actually readable!

**Warnings**: Mention of torture, bad language

* * *

London, 16 October 2012

Sherlock slept for a good eight hours. Lestrade used the time of quiet to get himself accustomed to the new situation. With the help of the nurses he now understood most of the equipment surrounding John and was more able to monitor his progress. Observing the main vital signs, he tried to talk to John about the latest football results, what happened at the Yard in the past few weeks, even the weather. Nothing got him any reaction from the comatose patient and he started to doubt the effectiveness of this method. Until he tried a new tactic.

"You know, Sherlock is worried about you. I've never seen him so distressed. Do you remember what I told you the day we met? That he someday may be a good man? He is now, John, and that is entirely thanks to you. So you see? You have to come back to us, 'cause I am not ready to deal with him on my own again!"

Watching the monitors closely, Lestrade saw a tiny pickup on the heart frequency, just a few beats and only for a couple of seconds, but he took it as a good sign, and continued talking about Sherlock. After updating John on his friend's health, something he knew would be of paramount interest to the doctor, he moved on to old cases, which he had worked with Sherlock before John's time. Apart from the nurses that came in for frequent checks on both patients, they were undisturbed for most of the day.

* * *

Later in the afternoon, Sherlock had woken from his sleep. Lestrade was in the middle of reiterating a particular tough murder case when he was interrupted.

"Oh would you shut up with the boring old tales. I am no hero and no one knows that better than John!" With that he turned around in his bed to stare out of the window, his back to his friends and his entire being radiating '_Leave me alone.'_

Lestrade wondered what the silence was about, but before he could really make any sense of it, Nurse Sita came in with some futuristic looking machine, with lots of wires attached to it. Turning around, Sherlock eyed it suspiciously, but remained uncharacteristically silent.

"Dr Cavanaugh and Dr Lee, our Neurologist, would like to perform some tests with John. This machine will emit weak electrical impulses to test the response of selected nerve centres." She started to set up the machine, connecting several of the wires to Johns head, hands and feet. While she was busy with that, Dr Cavanaugh and a new doctor, presumably Dr. Lee, came into the room.

"Gentlemen, this is Dr Carolyn Lee, one of the leading neurologists in the country. She was consulting with the neurosurgical team in Budapest and will be taking over the care of John from here on for all things related to his head injury. Our orthopaedic surgeon, Dr. Walters will be in later today to examine the knee injury."

Lestrade introduced himself to the new doctor and asked her some general questions in regards to John's prognosis and treatment. He noticed that Sherlock kept his attention fixed on Nurse Sita, and was completely ignoring Dr. Lee.

The machine was turned on and started to hum in a low volume, but high pitched sound as the charges were building up. Lestrade's eyes were fixed on John, but from his position he could see Sherlock in his peripheral vision. When Sherlock suddenly stiffened and turned over in his bed, he was the only one who noticed.

"TURN IT OFF!" Lestrade roared, running over to the other bed. Sherlock's entire body was shaking violently and he was curled up into a ball, both hands clamped firmly over his ears. The doctors and nurse sprang into action and while Sita shut down the machine, Dr Cavanaugh hurried over to his other patient's bed. Unsure of what had triggered such an extreme reaction, Lestrade stepped back and let the medical personnel take over.

The high pitched whirring sound tuned down and then faded out completely. Dr. Cavanaugh slowly approached Sherlock, taking in the obvious signs of distress. "Sherlock? Sherlock, you are safe, you are at the hospital, remember?" He spoke in a quiet and calm voice, as if calming a crying child.

"No, no more. Turn it off. Please…. No…"

Lestrade winced. He had worked with enough traumatised witnesses to recognize a flashback. He exchanged a quick glance with Dr. Cavanaugh, who just nodded encouragingly and waved him closer. Stepping next to the bed, he swallowed down his own shock at seeing the usually vibrant detective reduced to this whimpering and scared mess. He heard the doctor continue to speak to Sherlock.

"Nobody will hurt you, Sherlock. It's safe. Your friends Greg and John are here as well."

The last name seemed to register with Sherlock, but not in a good way. His hands shot forward, grabbing hold of Lestrade's arms.

"Let him go, Jake. NO! No… leave him alone. STOP IT! No….Jooohhn!" Sherlock was screaming frantically while still holding Lestrade's arms in a death grip. Lestrade was surprised by the strength of the hold the detective had on him. He felt completely overwhelmed by the scene that he found himself in the middle of. Sherlock wasn't someone known to panic. He was the calm, cold and logical mind that drove everyone around him mad. And if he did get off on one of his rants, there was always John to rein him back in. But now everything was wrong and Lestrade was at a loss on how to help his friends. Still, for their and his own sake, he had to try.

"Sherlock, it's me, Greg. You're ok. Jake is dead, remember? John shot him."

"John?" Sherlock seemed to relax a little bit.

"He's right here. If you open your eyes you can see him on your left." Lestrade slowly and carefully removed Sherlock's hands from his arms and stepped aside so that Sherlock could see John in the other bed.

"Hospital?" He asked in a quiet voice.

Dr. Cavanaugh stepped closer again. "Yes, you are in a Hospital. In London." Sherlock turned his head to look at the doctor. "You with us again?"

Sherlock gave a small nod, then turned onto his back and covered his eyes with his right arm. He spent a few minutes just lying there, breathing and composing himself before he started speaking. He removed his arm and looked at Lestrade. "I confused you with Jake Moriarty." He glanced at Lestrade again, this time with his usual scrutinizing look. "Bit unlikely."

Lestrade gave him a fond smile as relief flooded through him. That was the Sherlock he knew. "Yeah, but I won't hold it against you. Want to go and get a coffee while the doctors continue the examination of John?"

Sherlock slipped out of the bed and into his dressing gown, only too keen to have an excuse to leave the room and escape the uncomfortable situation. Dr. Cavanaugh pulled Lestrade aside before the latter could follow Sherlock. "He trusts you. More than me or anyone else I know. See if you can get him to talk about what just happened and about the original event. My best guess is that they used sound as a torture device, but any detail could help us with the rehab."

Lestrade gave the man a sharp glance. Talking to Sherlock about his time in captivity would be no walk in the park. He could be grateful that he got the mere basics out of the man. But Cavanaugh seemed optimistic. "Give it a try. He might be more cooperative than you think."

With a heavy sigh, Lestrade left the room and hurried after Sherlock, who was already halfway down the hall towards the little kitchenette.

Once Lestrade entered the small room he found Sherlock staring out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. Seeing his friend in his signature pose stirred up old emotions of loss, grief and anger, but he swallowed them down quickly. Not the right time. He poured them two mugs of coffee, added two sugars into Sherlock's and joined the other man, handing Sherlock's over to his waiting hand. They stood in silence for several minutes, observing the usual buzz of the streets in London, listening to the muted sound that travelled through the closed windows.

Then, all of the sudden, Sherlock started to speak. His voice was detached, betrayed no emotion, "They cuffed my hands behind my back and locked me in a small cell. No lights. Then the sound started. Not loud at first, but a piercing tone. Never changing, just that one single, high pitched tone. They kept me like that for hours, maybe even days, I don't know. At first I simply retreated to my mind palace, but the sound eventually penetrated through and there was nothing more I could do." He trailed off, his gaze wandering to his coffee mug, held firmly in both hands. "In my flashback I saw Jake bring John into that same room. I tried to stop them, but I could not help him."

Lestrade felt like throwing his mug against the wall. It was a good thing that Jake Moriarty was dead, he could not have guaranteed his conduct if he had to arrest the man. The more he learned about Sherlock and John's ordeal the more he knew that John simply had to pull through. Sherlock was deeply scarred by his capture, but knowing the detective, he would just brush it off and continue as normal. John was the only one who might be able to get him to open up and actually work through the ordeal. Or at least John would be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together whenever Sherlock fell apart.

"Jake did not break me, but it was what he was after and he came close." Sherlock turned and looked at Lestrade. "You are right, Detective Inspector, if John does not recover, neither will I." His entire posture showed his usual analytical and cold demeanour, void of any emotional attachment.

Lestrade felt something inside him shift. It might not be the right time, but damn it, he needed an explanation, especially now that Sherlock was back to showing his usual annoying mannerisms.

"Well, at least then you know how it feels. Losing a friend. The guilt, the doubts. Not easy, is it? And you think you can just take the painless way out? Again?" He knew he sounded bitter. And while he was genuinely concerned for the younger man, he could not help but to lash out a little.

Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, puzzled. And suddenly Greg understood. The detective really did not make the connection. In all his logic, he failed to fully understand the dramatic consequences that his actions had on other people. That, more than anything, softened Lestrade and instead of scolding him he started to speak in a calm tone.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, let me explain a few things to you on how us normal human beings function. I don't know how much John told you, but what you did to him, and to the rest of us, letting us believe that you had died, that was cruel. You told me it was necessary for you to '_die_' to save John. Fine, I believe you. But why stay dead? Why not tell us a few days later? Where you there at your funeral? Did you hear the eulogy John gave?" His voice cracked at the painful memory.

"John fell into a deep hole after your 'death'. He stopped going out, stopped dating, stopped having a goddamned life. Even moved out of Baker Street. Mrs Hudson still is haunted by the loss of her boys. The flat's empty as far as I know, she couldn't bear having anyone but you and John living there. Molly –, well she is distant now, doesn't talk much. Did you think about them at all before you pulled off your stunt? About how this might impact their lives?"

"Are you done, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock's face turned hard and dark, threatening in a way the DI had never seen before. Still, Lestrade suspected that his words had hit him harder than he would ever let out. "If I had not jumped, you would not stand there today. And neither would Mrs Hudson."

"What are you on about?" Lestrade had the sinking feeling that he was not going to like the explanation that he was about to hear.

"Moriarty had me backed into a corner. He had three snipers on you, John and Mrs. Hudson, ready to shoot, unless they saw me kill myself. My life for the lives of my only friends. That was the trade-off. If I had come back just a few days later, they would have killed you. The only way to ensure your safety was to go after them myself, tearing through layers upon layers of back-up and secondary snipers, while everyone had to believe my death. The slightest mistake would have meant the instant death of my friends. Do you think this was easy for me? Now, Greg, what would you have done in my place?" Sherlock's voice was shaky, showing just how much this decision still affected him.

Lestrade was speechless.

"Sherlock, I – " God, how had he misjudged the situation so badly?

"Don't bother. You think I don't care about people, and you are right where my work is concerned. Caring means weakness and Moriarty exploited my weakness mercilessly. I won't make that mistake again."

"How? How do you stop caring?" Lestrade was uneasy. This whole conversation was uncharted territory and he prayed that he hadn't gone too far, that Sherlock would not shut him out now.

"The same way Mycroft and I deal each other; emotional distance. It protects us. It worked fine before John–, before he snuck right through my defences. And now look at the mess it left us with."

"Mycroft? How does he play into this? You despise him!"

"He is my_ brother_, Lestrade! My family. What do you think? We may not always get along very well, but of course I care. We both learned the hard way that emotions are dangerous and need to be suppressed. Mycroft wasn't threatened by Moriarty for exactly that reason. No one that sees us thinks that we actually _like_ each other – or rather did like each other. Currently I am not very fond of him. But that's my point! You just proved it."

"Moriarty didn't even try to threaten Mycroft, because he thought it would be useless?"

"Mycroft is in a position of unique power. If it was known that he has a little brother that he actually cares about, don't you think that would be exploited by his enemies? Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty tried to get to him through me, and they got very, very close, but ultimately failed. This is what protects us, Lestrade."

There was a dangerous and edgy gleam in Sherlock's eyes that reminded the DI that he was talking to a Holmes here, and that despite the recent events, this man was not to be underestimated. But there was a trace of something else showing in his features, something Lestrade couldn't quite place. And as if he could read his mind, Sherlock stepped forward and passed Lestrade, effectively hiding his face.

"I got comfortable, didn't expect anyone to target me. My own defences were worn thin by the insistent loyalty of John and I gave in. It felt nice to actually have a semblance of a normal life. If I had kept everyone at distance, Moriarty wouldn't have had a bargaining chip, I could have destroyed him. But I didn't and the people that are closest to me had to suffer the consequences. Do you see now, Greg? I hurt all of you _because _I care."

Sherlock turned around sharply and stalked out of the room, leaving a stunned Lestrade behind. The DI was at loss. He could see how the Holmes brothers, in their unique way of seeing the world, had worked out this twisted little thought process. And it really explained a lot about the enigma that Sherlock still was to him. Now, just how could he convince the detective that he was wrong?

* * *

London, 19 October 2012

"Sherlock!"

The last days had been hell. After the blowout in the kitchen, Sherlock had all but ignored Lestrade. Taking the opportunity, the latter had left the clinic for the night and upon his return in the morning he found Sherlock sitting on his own bed, typing furiously on his laptop. According to the nurses he was refusing all food, but at least accepted the IV fluids and medication.

Now, three days later, Lestrade only just stopped himself yelling at the younger man. He had gained some of his strength back and was as insufferable as ever. When the doctors told them that John would live, although there was still a high probability of permanent brain damage, Sherlock had started to soften his abrasive behaviour somewhat. But now that the worry was replaced with boredom and irritation at being trapped in the hospital, the detective was a ticking time bomb, ready to go off at a moment's notice.

Today, the doctors would wake John up to assess his brain functions, and currently Sherlock was pacing the room like a mad man.

"Calm down! They said it would take a couple of hours for John to wake up, this is normal."

"It has already been one hour and 41 minutes and he is not waking!"

"So he still has another 19 minutes. Now give it a rest before you walk a groove into the floor."

Sherlock was the first one to notice the movements of John's face and was next to his bed in a flash. A slight twitch of an eyelid, then a tiny motion of the lips, it was such a stark contrast to the complete lack of motion that was present only moments ago.

"John?"

Another flutter of the eyelids, but they did not open.

"He's waking up. Go and get the Doctors," Sherlock ordered.

Just as Lestrade left the room, John opened his eyes. Sherlock moved closer to his face, to allow him to see a familiar person. But then he frowned. Something was wrong. The eyes were open, but not focused. They did not follow his movements in any way either. Worst of all, there was no recognition in them. Sherlock used his hand to wave in front of John's face.

"John? Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Sherlock tried not to panic, but there was a certain edge in his voice.

"Can you blink if you hear me?" Nothing. "Please, John, anything!"

When Lestrade returned with Dr. Lee and several nurses in tow, Sherlock was in a state of full blown panic.

"He's not responding. His eyes are open, but there is no reaction at all!"

* * *

**AN: Last cliffhanger of the story, I promise! **


	15. Chapter 15

This is it folks, the last chapter! Followed by a short Epilogue to wrap things up, as always beta'd by **MrsNoggin**.

I usually don't respond to reviews in my AN, but two exceptions for great reviews that I can't answer via PM:

**maryfreeman32**: Thank you! I am happy I could help, and will watch out for your story!

**Arana:** Wow, danke! Die Idee mit Andrew ist super, kommt aber leider etwas zu spaet fuer die Story. Fuer ein kurzes one-shot allerdings... hmmm mein Hirn arbeitet bereits auf Hochtouren an den Moeglichkeiten!Danke fuer die Inspiration!

The very talented **KickingRoses **has made an amazing fanvideo that works as a trailer of sorts to this story (although it was created completely independent from my work). Check it out on my tumblr or find it directly on youtube:

_youtube (dotcom) /watch?v=07qpW_g_nNQ_ (thanks ffn for forcing me to totally slaughter this link... remove the brackets and spaces and replace 'dot' with the actual thing!)

**Warnings:** none!

* * *

London, 19 October 2012

Sherlock was pacing the hallway like a maniac. Lestrade had finally given up trying to calm him down. It had been a pitiful attempt anyway as Lestrade was just as distressed, but he somehow managed to keep a cool facade. There were a thousand things that could go wrong, could _be_ wrong with John and they were all rushing through his head. Seeing him lying in the bed with his eyes open, yet not showing any sign of awareness, of recognition, had been tough. He knew that the odds of John coming out of this unscathed were minuscule and yet the sight of his friend in a vegetative state was distressing. He found it impossible to accept that this should be John Watson's fate.

Dr. Lee came out of the room and closed the door behind her. Sherlock was in front of her with two long strides, crowding into her personal space. She completely ignored him and addressed Lestrade instead.

"We were able to perform a brief series of tests on John before he went back to sleep. We tested his level of consciousness based on visual, verbal and motor reaction. The findings are of course only initial and we require more refined tests once he is fully awake –"

"How bad is it?" Sherlock interrupted tersely.

" –But we...What? Sherlock," she addressed the younger man directly now, her voice soft and comforting. "John has a GCS* of 14, and that is expected to turn into a 15 once he is fully awake." She gave him a pointed glance that prompted the detective to interpret the data by himself. Apparently she had picked up that the detective dealt best with raw, un-interpreted facts.

Sherlock took a moment to process what he just heard. "He will be all right." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes, against all odds, he will live, and, with time, he will heal. The results are promising. All major functions and reflexes are within the normal range and there is no indication for any kind of permanent damage. Now, don't expect miracles, he is still very weak and will be mostly sleeping for the next few days, but it's only sleep now, no more coma. When he wakes up he is likely to be disoriented in the beginning, so speak to him, repeat that he is at the hospital, but don't expect coherent answers yet. The sedatives are still in his system and will take some time to fully disperse and the pain medication he is on will make him drowsy. We will slowly reduce the levels over the next days and he should be fully alert in about three to four days. You can go back inside now." Sherlock pushed past her before the last words even left her month and entered John's room.

Lestrade was left alone in the hallway with Dr. Lee, the relief clear on his face. He felt completely drained as all the tension of the last three days left him. Realising that John would be fine for the moment with just Sherlock next to him, he suddenly felt useless.

"Come on, you look like you could use a coffee." She gave him a quick glance. "Or something stronger?" At his nod, she continued: "We can see what we find in the kitchen. I believe the nurses have a secret stash somewhere. With your detective skills we should find it in no time and then I will explain the further proceedings to you; until John is fully conscious you are still his medical proxy."

Grateful for the observant doctor, Lestrade followed her down the hall. The world did look a lot better than it had just a few minutes ago.

* * *

London, 24 October 2012

It was another five days until John was lucid enough to have conversations that lasted longer than five minutes. He had awoken a while ago and felt the difference immediately. He was properly awake; the sedatives had completely cleared his system. The pain in his head and leg was no more than a dull throb and definitely manageable as long as he didn't move. Content to be finally fully aware of his surroundings, he started to scan the room for signs of his flat mate. He found him pretty much immediately, reclined in his own bed, laptop on his knees and immersed in God only knew what.

"You're awake." Sherlock did not even move his head. "Your heart rate sped up about 40 seconds ago, and levelled out on the new speed 8 seconds ago. Judging from how long it usually takes you to orientate yourself and open your eyes, you are currently looking at me, am I correct?"

"Yes. As usual. If you would turn your head you could confirm it yourself."

"Boring. You just told me that I was right; there is no reason to doubt your word."

"Never mind then. Sorry for disturbing you."

"It is good to see you finally properly awake." Sherlock shot him a quick look. "It was getting a bit boring to watch you sleep."

John couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about Sherlock seemed off. He was detached, yes, but that was rather normal for the detective, and still, something in his voice caught John's attention. He decided to let it slide for now, but kept vigilant for other signs. Maybe it was just the fact that Sherlock was still trapped at the hospital. After all, his own injuries proved to be much less severe than John's. But his resistance to eat regular meals left him still severely undernourished and the doctors refused to discharge him before he gained at least another 3 pounds. Speaking of food...

"Any chance I could get somethin' to eat here?"

"Are you sure? While the food here is much better than in NHS hospitals, it is still rather appalling."

"I was a soldier, Sherlock, I'm used to appalling food, and I am hungry."

Sherlock pressed the button next to his bed to call for the nurse. With one fluid motion he snapped shut his laptop and jumped out of the bed. John pretended to not see him wince as the movement pulled on his stitches. Clad in his signature pyjama and blue robe he strode over to the door.

"I am out for a while. My irritating brother is coming to work on my 'resurrection' and I don't want him to mess this up as well! For that I need to think and your blabbering is not helping. I am sure Nurse Sita will provide sufficient entertainment for you." And with one rather dramatic swoosh of his robe he left.

Something was definitely off with Sherlock. Unfortunately, Sita walked in right after Sherlock left and engaged John in happy chatter. The nurse was bubbly and energetic and John found himself well distracted from his mysterious roommate.

* * *

A knock on the door made John look up from his pudding. He found the older Holmes brother standing in the doorway, clad in his usual three piece suit and carrying his umbrella.

"Mycroft. I was wondering when you would show up."

"There was no need for my appearance here before today. I have been kept informed about both of your healing progress, naturally. Congratulations to a rather remarkable recovery."

"Thanks, I guess."

"I am also here to inform you that there will be no charges in the unfortunate demise of Jacob Moriarty, there is no family left who would have any claim and both Hungarian and British authorities will file this incident as self defence. The remaining members of Moriarty's organisation have been detained and are awaiting trial. You and Sherlock will not need to appear, the evidence secured on site is more than conclusive."

"That's... that's good. So it's over?"

"Yes, it is over." He gave John a sad smile and continued, "Send my regards to my brother, would you?"

"Oh, I thought you were on talking terms again?" That remark earned him a heavy sigh from Mycroft.

"We are discussing how much of all of this will be released to the public. Sherlock is against a press release, but we will need to explain his survival and return. The media would have a field day if he just appeared back in Baker Street. For the time being, he is tolerating my presence, but that is as far as it extends I am afraid. He blames me for everything, and he is not entirely wrong to do so. I am sorry, for what it's worth, but I stand by my actions. They were necessary and in the end, the result justified the means."

John did not know what to reply to this not-quite-an-apology and Mycroft turned to leave, stopping briefly at the door. "I watched the tapes from Hungary. All of them. You saved his life, John. Again, I may state. And for that I am in your debt. But he will need you in the months to come. Even my brother can't just walk away from something this... horrific. Take care of him when I can't." And with one last twirl of the umbrella Mycroft was gone.

John let out a breath. They did not have to testify in court. That was a relief. He hadn't expected any serious repercussions from the events in Budapest, assuming that Mycroft would handle that, and he had been right. But facing the men responsible for torturing Sherlock was something he had not looked forward to. However, John didn't fool himself into believing that all their problems had suddenly disappeared. Both of them had gone through significant trauma, and John fully expected his PTSD to do an encore performance. At least he knew what to expect, Sherlock on the other hand was well on the way to suppressing all emotions and pain. From experience John knew that that would not work in the long run.

Mycroft was right, the break down was inevitable and all John could hope for was that he was well enough by then to catch Sherlock. It somehow seemed unlikely that the detective would seek professional help, even though he definitely would benefit from it. John just hoped they could get through this and settle back into their old life at Baker Street.

* * *

The loud noise of the door slamming shut and a chair being dragged rather unceremoniously over the floor woke John up from his afternoon slumber. He blinked a few times, trying to rouse properly from the unwelcome wakeup call when his view landed on Sherlock, sitting in a chair beside his bed. John shuffled around a little, until he had a clear view of his friend. He did not like what he saw. The younger man was tense, and his face had a slightly absent expression, as if he was putting on a mask. But besides him there was no one in the room, and Sherlock never hid from John, or at least he hadn't in a long time.

"I have found a nice one bedroom apartment near the clinic for you, the landlady is a friend of Mrs Hudson and the rent should be affordable for you." He suddenly blurted out.

"What?" John asked, perplexed. "What _the hell_ are you on about?"

"Donovan was right all this time, she has been telling you since the day we met, but you would not listen. I am not good for you. Dangerous even. I hurt everyone that gets close to me. Just look at yourself. If you stay you will get killed."

"Sherlock, I..."

"I would leave again, but you came after me the first time, chances are you will do so again. So it has to be you."

John was furious. How dare he push him away? After everything they had been through? But then, this was Sherlock Holmes, amazing genius, but completely helpless with real human emotions.

"You are a bloody idiot, aren't you? All that brilliance in your brain, and yet you still don't get it." His tone was sharp.

Sherlock frowned in genuine confusion.

"I was a soldier. I risked my life for the good of others every day, and it was my choice to do so. And that was before I even met you. It's who I am. You said it yourself in that godforsaken basement. So what is the bloody difference if I risk my life in a far away country or by helping you catch criminals?"

Sherlock's large frame seemed to shrink under John's harsh words, his shoulder sacked and his head dropped. His voice was barely audible when he whispered: "When you die in the war it is not my fault."

Now John felt like an idiot. Of course, famous Holmes self-blame, he should have seen that one coming. He wished Sherlock would look at him so he could convey better just how much he meant every word he was about to say. "Sherlock – it will never be your fault! This is _my_ choice and mine alone. If I can save your life by giving mine, then I will gladly do it. Not because of some misguided sense of loyalty, but because you truly deserve it. You are brilliant and amazing and you are my best friend. And I will _never_ leave you."

Sherlock's body language did not show any sign that he had even heard John. He remained still, frozen for several minutes. Then, after the lengthy minutes of silence, Sherlock let out a long breath and started to straighten himself again. Closing the gap between them, he bent down close to John's face. His eyes were piercing as he gave John a scrutinizing look, trying to gauge if John spoke the truth. John held this intense gaze, neither blinking nor wavering. Finally, Sherlock spoke, his voice raw and edgy, and his gaze still fixed on John.

"That was – No one ever spoke to me like that. Thank you." He stopped and suddenly frowned. "But the not leaving part, you – you are not going to propose to me, are you?"

John gasped sharply and broke the eye contact. He was flustered and stuttered quickly. "Wha-? No! No, I am- I'm not–"

"Gay. I know. And I am not interested. But I do want my blogger back."

Sherlock gave him a hint of a smile and finally seemed to allow himself to relax. John felt sudden warmth spread through his chest. They would be all right. Their friendship would continue to elude any kind of classification. They would continue to fight over body parts in the fridge and questionable girlfriends, but all of that did not really matter as long as they both accepted the simple truth: They were miserable without the other. John finally realised that they belonged together, because true, unconditional friendship is so rare that once you have, you must never let it go.

* * *

*GCS – Glasgow Coma Scale (Scale from 3-15, 15 being fully awake and aware)

**AN: See? No more cliffies and I even managed a happy ending! On with the epilogue...**


	16. Chapter 16

It is done! With this epilogue Hiding in Plain Sight is complete! (I have posted chapters 15 and 16 together, so if you jumped straight here, you have to read 15 first!)

I would never have reached this point without the constant help, nagging, encouragement and general awesomeness of **MrsNoggin**, my fantastic beta and personal sleuth for plot holes and inconsistencies! Thank you sooo much dear!

Thanks of course to you all for sticking with me this entire time, for reading, reviewing, favouring and following chapter after chapter. I never imagined that my little story would reach so many people and I am extremely humbled by all the positive feedback.

So, without any further ado, on with the story:

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Six months later

John watched in resignation as Sherlock disappeared around the corner in hot pursuit of a suspect. He missed the running, the thrill of the chase, but his knee just did not allow him those fast movements any more. He was already lucky to be able to walk without a cane. That was the most recent achievement of his miracle worker of a physiotherapist. Without her constant push and encouragement he wondered if he would even be walking at all.

The last six months had been tough; the recovery from his numerous injuries had kept him in the hospital for several weeks. He'd had, altogether, four surgeries on the knee, repairing the massive damage and removing scar tissue, followed by months of physiotherapy to get his knee back in shape. Learning how to walk again was difficult and frustrating, but with the steadfast support from Greg and the constant fussing from Mrs Hudson, he made it through. Even Sherlock had been surprisingly supportive during his rehab. The detective had recovered from his physical injuries in no time, but the scars left on his mind were a different topic altogether.

Sherlock, true to his self, refused any kind of therapy. He insisted that he was fine but John knew better. He saw the lines of exhaustion in Sherlock's face, the testament of too many sleepless nights, and the look of panic in his eyes when something triggered a memory. He noticed that Sherlock avoided dark rooms and had a sudden aversion to cereal. As long as John was stuck at the hospital he could not do much, other than voice out his concern to Greg and Mycroft, who both tried to help in their own ways.

Once he was released from the hospital and back in their Baker Street flat, things escalated. A traumatised and bored detective coupled with an immobilised and frustrated ex-soldier seemed to be the perfect ingredients for disaster. There was screaming, smashing and even tears. But eventually their anger was vented and the talking started. Sherlock opened up about the weeks of his solitary capture and John voiced out his own fears and devastation at Sherlock's apparent suicide. They both went for therapy sessions to work through the most severe trauma, Mycroft insisted, and eventually even Sherlock caved in. It helped that they both were seeing the same therapist, even though their sessions were separate.

After the talking, things slowly started to get better. John's physiotherapy showed the first results, giving him some of his mobility back and Sherlock's nightmares and flashbacks became less and less frequent. There was still some tension in the flat, but they had come to a shaky truce for now. Things took a definite turn for the better when Sherlock was taking cases again and John was actually able to walk with a cane and accompany his friend.

One of the major roadblocks had been Sherlock's continued hostility towards his brother. For once, John sided with Mycroft, he had even forgiven him the manipulations that led to his discovery of Sherlock's plan. After all, he had acted out of genuine worry for his little brother, and his meddling had saved Sherlock's life! John could sympathise with that. Sherlock on the other hand was relentless.

Deciding that it was getting ridiculous, John started his own manipulations, careful to remain subtle about it, he slowly pushed Sherlock closer to his older brother. Using everything that he had learned about the pair and their complicated relationship, he eventually managed to get them to mend their fences. In the end, both Holmes brothers had come to a newfound mutual respect for the characteristics of the other, and their relationship, while still not exactly close, was better than it had been in years. John was immensely pleased with himself.

Suddenly torn out of his memories, John heard a scream from the direction in which Sherlock had disappeared. So he had caught up with the criminal then. But the voice was a familiar deep baritone, and the sound made John's blood run cold. He accelerated his steps to the fastest he could manage, trying desperately to catch up with the erratic detective, pushing images of a bleeding, dying Sherlock out of his mind.

He finally rounded the last corner and was faced with an annoyed looking, but unhurt detective and a terrified suspect with a bloody nose, covering against the wall, trembling in fear. A small pocket knife lay forgotten on the floor between them. John looked from one to the other and then settled his glance on his flatmate. Eyebrows elevated, he silently asked for an explanation.

Sherlock grabbed his ever present blue scarf with both hands and held it up for John to see. It looked fine, except for a small cut near one of the ends. The picture started to become clearer in John's head.

"He cut my scarf!"

"And obviously that justifies you breaking his nose." He had approached the scared man and carefully assessed his injury.

Sherlock snorted in disgust. "He's lucky it's only his nose. This is my favourite scarf. Mycroft kept it all this time for me and now it's ruined, just because this idiot here had to put up a fight instead of surrender himself to a clearly superior opponent."

"It's a bloody scarf, Sherlock, I am sure we can find you a new one."

Sherlock huffed, then turned around and started typing on his mobile. "Cuff him to that pipe. I've text Lestrade to pick him up. Let's go home, John."

John shot the poor sod an apologetic look, and then pulled out the cuffs that Sherlock had 'borrowed' from one of Lestrade officers at the crime scene. "Wait here, the police will come to get you in no time. And, erm, sorry about the nose."

John walked out of the alley just in time to see Sherlock disappear into a cab and close the door behind him. 'Great,' he thought annoyed, 'Some things never change!' But the cab did not drive off, instead Sherlock opened the door.

John hesitated. '...or do they?'

"John, do keep up. Get in the car!" He called impatiently, motioning for John to enter the cab. "Lestrade's just text back, he has a new case." There was an excited gleam in his eyes. "I do hope it's a serial killer, they're always entertaining." The damaged scarf hung forgotten around his neck.

John simply stared at him and grinned. He couldn't put a finger on what exactly caused it; Sherlock's excitement, the adrenaline leaving his system or the sheer joy that both of them were alive, but he felt bubbly and giddy inside, almost lightheaded. Sitting down beside his friend, he saw the confused look the detective gave him and started giggling. Sherlock's frown slowly changed into understanding and then a wide smile spread over his face, his eyes sparkling with delight. In a heartbeat both of them were dissolved in helpless laughter, letting go of the sorrow caused by Sherlock's death and the following chain of events, and slipping comfortably back into their old comradeship.

'Yes,' John thought, 'Some things never do change, and that is a good thing!'

THE END

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**AN: There are a few lose threads that have been left open on purpose, like how exactly did John figure out that Sherlock is alive, how much help did Mycroft really give? What was Molly's involvement? ****Also, how was Sherlock's return taken by the public?**

**Hiding in Plain Sight was all about John saving Sherlock and I feel that this story stands complete as it is. If you have any suggestions, requests for sequels, things you want to see, places to go, please PM me! I am always game for a good challenge! **


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